
Gass 1\ )I JD ^ 
Book ' J ^rJ 



COPWIGHT DEPOSrr. 



THE OLD SOLDIER'S STORY 



THE 
OLD SOLDIER'S STORY 



Poems and Prose Sketches 



JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 



[027 



INDIANAPOLIS 

THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 



'OPYRIGHT 1913, 1914, 1915 

James Whitcomb Riley 



t^ 









PRESS OF 

BRAUNWORTH & CO. 

BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN, N. Y. 

©CI.A414277 

OCT 27 1915 



TO 
GEORGE THOMPSON, ESQ. 

"Avvles hen rive in my gardayne** 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

The Old Soldier's Story 1 

Somep'n Common-Like 5 

Monsieur le Secretaire . 6 

A Phantom 7 

In the Corridor 8 

LotJELLA WAINIE 9 

The Text 11 

William Brown 12 

Why 14 

The Touch of Loving Hands 15 

A Test 16 

A Song for Christmas 17 

Sun and Rain 19 

With Her Face 20 

My Night 21 

The Hour Before the Dawn 22 

Good-By, Old Year 23 

False and True 24 

A Ballad from April 25 

Brudder Sims 27 

Deformed 28 

Faith 30 

The Lost Thrill 31 

At Dusk 32 

Another Ride from Ghent to Aix 33 

In the Heart of June 36 

Dreams 37 

Because 42 

To the Cricket 43 

The Old-Fashioned Bible 44 

Uncomforted 46 

What They Said 48 

After the Frost 50 

Charles H. Phillips 51 

When It Rains 53 

An Assassin 55 



CONTENTS — Continued 

PAGE 

Best of All 56 

Bin a-Fishin' 57 

Uncle Dax'l ix Town Over Sunday 59 

Soldiers Here To-Day 61 

Shadow and Shine 65 

That Night . 66 

August 67 

The Guide 68 

Sutter's Claim 71 

Her Light Guitar 73 

While Cigarettes to Ashes Tltin 74 

Two Sonnets to the June-Bug 77 

Autographic 79 

An Impromptu on Roller Skates 80 

Written in Bunner's "Airs from Arcady" .... 81 

In the Afternoon 82 

At Madame Manicure's 84 

A Caller from Boone 86 

Lord Bacon 98 

My First Womern 99 

As We Read Burns 101 

To James Newton Matthews 102 

Song 103 

When We Three Meet 105 

Josh Billings 106 

Which Ane 108 

The Earthquake Ill 

A Fall-Crick View of the Earthquake .... 112 

Lewis D. Hayes 114 

In Days to Come 116 

Luther A. Todd 117 

When the Hearse Comes Back 121 

Our Old Friend Neverfail 124 

Dan 0' Sullivan 126 

John Boyle O'Reilly 127 

Meredith Nicholson 129 

God's Mercy 130 



CONTENTS— Coniinwed 

PAGE 

Cheistmas Greeting 131 

To RuDYARD Kipling . . 132 

The Gudewife 133 

Tennyson 134 

Rosamond C. Bailey . . . 135 

Mrs. Benjamin Harrison 136 

George A. Carr 138 

To Elizabeth 139 

To Almon Keefer 140 

To— "The J. W. R. Literary Club" 142 

Little Maid-o'-Dreams 143 

To THE Boy with a Country 145 

Claude Matthews 146 

To Lesley 147 

The Judkins Papers 148 

To the Quiet Observer — Erasmus Wilson .... 165 

America's Thanksgiving 166 

William Pinkney Fishback 168 

John Clark Ridpath 170 

New Year's Nursery Jingle 173 

To the Mother 174 

To My Sister 175 

A Motto 176 

To A Poet on His Marriage 177 

Art and Poetry . . . . 178 

Her Smile of Cheer and Voice of Song 179 

Old Indiany 180 

Abe Martin 183 

O. Henry 185 

"MoNA Machree" 186 

William McKinley 187 

Benjamin Harrison 190 

Lee O. Harris 192 

The Highest Good 194 

My Conscience 195 

My Boy 197 

The Object Lesson 198 



THE OLD SOLDIER'S STORY 



THE OLD SOLDIEE^S STOEY 

AS TOLD BEFORE THE NEW ENGLAND SOCIETY IN 
NEW YOEK CITY 

Since we .have had no stories to-night I will venture, 
Mr. President, to tell a story that I have heretofore 
heard at nearly all the banquets I have ever attended. 
It is a story simply, and you must bear with it kindly. 
It is a story as told by a friend of us all, who is found 
in all parts of all countries, who is immoderately fond 
of a funny story, and who, unfortunately, attempts to 
tell a funny story himself — one that he has been partic- 
ularly delighted with. Well, he is not a story-teller, and 
especially he is not a funny story-teller. His funny 
stories, indeed, are oftentimes touchingly pathetic. But 
to such a story as he tells, being a good-natured man 
and kindly disposed, we have to listen, because we do 
not want to wound his feelings by telling him that we 
have heard that story a great number of times, and that 
we have heard it ably told by a great number of people 
from the time we were children. But, as I say, we can 
not hurt his feelings. We can not stop him. We can 
not kill him; and so the story generally proceeds. He 

1 



THE OLD soldier's STORY 

selects a very old story always, and generally tells it in 
about this fashion : — 

I heerd an awfnl funny tiling the other day — ha ! ha ! 
I don't know whether I kin git it oS er not, but, an}^- 
how, I'll tell it to you. "Well ! — ^le's see now how the 
fool-thing goes. Oh, yes ! — Wy, there was a feller one 
time — it was durin' the army, and this feller that I 
started in to tell you about was in the war, and — ha! 
ha ! — there was a big fight a-goin' on, and this feller 
was in the fight, and it was a big battle and bullets 
a-flyin' ever' which way, and bombshells a-bu'stin', and 
cannon-balls a-flyin' 'round promiskus; and this feller 
right in the midst of it, you know, and all excited and 
het up, and chargin' away ; and the fust thing you know 
along come a cannon-ball and shot his head off — ha ! ha ! 
ha ! Hold on here a minute ! — no sir ; I'm a-gittin' 
ahead of my story; no, no; it didn't shoot his head oS — 
I'm gittin' the cart before the horse there — shot his leg 
oS; that was the way; shot his leg oS; and down the 
poor feller drapped, and, of course, in that condition 
was perfectly he'pless, you know, but yit with presence 
o' mind enough to know that he was in a dangerous con- 
dition ef somepin' wasn't done fer him right away. So 
he seen a comrade a-chargin' by that he knowed, and 
he hollers to him and called him by name — I disremem- 
ber now what the feller's name was. . . . 

Well, that's got nothin^ to do with the story, anyway ; 
lie hollers to him, he did, and says, "Hello, there," he 

2 



says to Mm; "here, I want you to come here and give 
me a lift; I got my leg shot off, and I want you to 
pack me back to the rear of the battle^^ — ^where the doc- 
tors always is, you know, during a fight — and he says, 
'^I want you to pack me back there where I can get med- 
dy-cinal attention er I'm a dead man, fer I got my leg 
shot off,'' he says, "and I want you to pack me back 
there so's the surgeons kin take keer of me." Well — 
the feller, as luck would have it, ricko-nized him and 
run to him and throwed down his own musket, so's he 
could pick him up; and he stooped down and picked 
him up and kindo' half-way shouldered him and half- 
way belt him betwixt his arms like, and then he turned 
and started back with him — ha ! ha ! ha ! Now, mind, 
the fight was still a-goin' on — and right at the hot of 
the fight, and the feller, all excited, you know, like he 
was, and the soldier that had his leg shot off gittin' 
kindo fainty like, and his head kindo' stuck back over 
the feller's shoulder that was carryin' him. And he 
hadn't got more'n a couple o' rods with him when an- 
other cannon-ball come along and tuk his head off, 
shore enough! — and the curioust thing about it was — 
ha ! ha ! — that the feller was a-packin' him didn't know 
that he had been hit ag'in at all, and back he went — 
still carryin' the deceased back — ha ! ha ! ha ! — to where 
the doctors could take keer of him — as he thought. Well, 
his cap'n happened to see him, and he thought it was a 
ruther cur'ous p'ceedin's — a soldier carryin' a dead body 

3 



out o' the figlit — don't you see? And so he hollers at 
him, and he says to the soldier, the cap'n did, he says, 
"Hullo, there; where you goin' with that thing?" the 
cap'n said to the soldier who was a-carryin' away the 
feller that had his leg shot off. Well, his head, too, by 
that time. So he says, "Where you goin' with that 
tiling?'' the cap'n said to the soldier who was a-carryin' 
away the feller that had his leg shot off. Well, the sol- 
dier he stopped — kinder halted, you know, like a private 
soldier will when his presidin' officer speaks to him — 
and he says to him, "W'y," he says, "Cap, it's a comrade 
o' mine and the pore feller has got his leg shot off, and 
I'm a-packin' him back to where the doctors is; and 
there was nobody to he'p him, and the feller would 'a' 
died in his tracks — er track ruther — ^if it hadn't a-been 
fer me, and I'm a-packin' him back where the surgeons 
can take keer of him; where he can get medical attend- 
ance — er his wife's a widder !" he says, " 'cause he's got 
his leg shot off!" Then Cap'n says, "You blame fool 
you, he's got his head shot off." So then the feller 
slacked his grip on the body and let it slide down to the 
ground, and looked at it a minute, all puzzled, you 
know, and says, "W'y, he told me it was his leg !" Ha ! 
ha! ha! 



SOMEFN COMMON-LIKE 

Somep'n 'af s common-like, and good 
And plain, and easy understood ; 
Somep'n ^at folks like me and you 
Kin understand, and relish, too, 
And find some sermint in ^at hits 
The spot, and sticks and benefits. 

"We don't need nothin' extry fine; 
'Canse, take the run o' minds like mine, 
And we'll go more on good horse-sense 
Than all your flowery eloquence; 
And we'll jedge best of honest acts 
By Nature's statement of the facts. 

So when you're wantin' to express 
Your misery, er happiness, 
Er anything 'at's wuth the time 
0' telling in plain talk er rhyme — 
Jes' sort o' let your subject run 
As ef the Lord wuz listenun. 



MONSIEUE LE SECEETAIRE 

[jOHN CLARK RIDPATH] 

MoN clier Monsieur le Secretaire, 

Your song flits with me everywhere ; 

It lights on Fancy^s prow and sings 

Me on divinest voyagings: 

And when my ruler love would fain 

Be laid upon it — high again 

It mounts, and hugs itself from me 

With rapturous wings — still dwindlingly- 

On ! — on ! till but a ghost is there 

Of song, Monsieur le Secretaire ! 



A PHAISTTOM 

Little baby, you have . wandered far away, 
And your fairy face comes back to me to-day, 

But I can not feel the strands 
Of your tresses, nor the play 

Of the dainty velvet-touches of your hands. 

Little baby, you were mine to hug and hold; 
Now your arms cling not about me as of old — 

my dream of rest come true. 
And my richer wealth than gold. 

And the surest hope of Heaven that I knew ! 

for the lisp long silent, and the tone 

Of merriment once mingled with my own — 

For the laughter of your lips, 

And the kisses plucked and thrown 

In the lavish wastings of your finger-tips ! 

Little baby, as then, come back to me, 
And be again just as you used to be, 

For this phantom of you stands 
All too cold and silently. 

And will not kiss nor touch me with its hands. 



m THE COEEIDOR 

Ah ! at last alone, love ! 

Now the band may play- 
Till its sweetest tone, love, 

Swoons and dies away! 
They who most will miss us 

"We're not caring for — 
Who of them could kiss us 

In the corridor? 

Had we only known, dear, 

Ere this long delay, 
Just how all alone, dear, 

We might waltz away, 
Then for hours, like this, love. 

We are longing for. 
We'd have still to kiss, love. 

In the corridor ! 

Nestle in my heart, love ; 

Hug and hold me close — 
Time will come to part, love. 

Ere a fellow knows; 
There ! the Strauss is ended — 

Whirl across the floor: 
Isn't waltzing splendid 

In the corridor ? 
8 



LOUELLA WAIlSriE 

LouELLA Wainie ! where are you ? 

Do you not hear me as I cry ? 
Dusk is falling ; I feel the dew ; 

And the dark will be here by and by : 
I hear no thing but the owl's hoo-hoo 1 
Louella Wainie ! where are you ? 

Hand in hand to the pasture bars 

We came loitering, Lou and I, 
Long ere the fireflies coaxed the stars 
Out of their hiding-place on high. 
how sadly the cattle moo ! 
Louella "Wainie ! where are you ? 



Laughingly we parted here — 

"I will go this way/^ said she, 
^^And you will go that way, my dear" — 
Kissing her dainty hand at me — 

And the hazels hid her from my view. 
Louella Wainie ! where are you ? 
9 



LOUELLA WAINIE 

Is there ever a sadder thing 

Than to stand on the farther brink 
Of twilight, hearing the marsh-frogs sing? 
Nothing could sadder be, I think ! 

And ah ! how the night-fog chills one through. 
Louella Wainie ! where are you ? 

Water-lilies and oozy leaves — 

Lazy bubbles that bulge and stare 
Up at the moon through the gloom it weaves 
Out of the willows waving there ! 
Is it despair I am wading through? 
Louella Wainie ! where are you ? 

Louella "Wainie, listen to me, 

Listen, and send me some reply, 
For so will I call unceasingly 

Till death shall answer me by and by — 
Answer, and help me to find you too ! 
Louella Wainie ! where are you ? 



10 



THE TEXT 

The text : Love thou thy fellow man ! 

He may have sinned ; — One proof indeed. 
He is thy fellow, reach thy hand 

And help him in his need! 

Love thou thy fellow man. He may 

Have wronged thee — then, the less excuse 

Thou hast for wronging him. Obey 
What he has dared refuse ! 

Love thou thy fellow man — for, be 
His life a light or heavy load, 

No less he needs the love of thee 
To help him on his road. 



11 



WILLIAM BEOWN 

"He bore the name of William Brown" — 
His name, at least, did not go down 

With him that day 

He went the way 

Of certain death where duty lay. 

He looked his fate full in the face- 
He saw his watery resting-place 

Undaunted, and 

With firmer hand 

Held others' hopes in sure command. — * 

The hopes of full three hundred lives — 
Aye, babes unborn, and promised wives! 

"The odds are dread," 

He must have said, 

"Here, God, is one poor life instead." 

Kg time for praying overmuch — 
No time for tears, or woman's touch 

Of tenderness. 

Or child's caress — 

His last "God bless them !" stopped at "bless' 
12 



WILLIAM BROWN" 

Thus man and engine, nerved with steel. 
Clasped iron hands for woe or weal, 

And so went down 

Where dark waves drown 

All but the name of William Brown. 



13 



WHY 

Why are they written — all these lovers' rhjrmes ? 
I catch faint perfumes of the blossoms white 
That maidens drape their tresses with at night. 
And, through dim smiles of beauty and the din 
Of the musicians' harp and violin, 
I hear, enwound and blended with the dance, 
The voice whose echo is this utterance, — 

Why are they written — all these lovers' rhymes? 

Why are they written — all these lovers' rhymes? 
I see but vacant windows, curtained o'er 
With webs whose architects forevermore 
Eace up and down their slender threads to bind 
The buzzing fly's wings whirless, and to wind 
The living victim in his winding sheet. — 
I shudder, and with whispering lips repeat. 

Why are they written — all these lovers' rhymes? 

Why are they written — all these lovers' rhymes? 
What will you have for answer ? — Shall I say 
That he who sings the merriest roundelay 
Hath neither joy nor hope ? — and he who sings 
The lightest, sweetest, tenderest of things 
But utters moan on moan of keenest pain. 
So aches his heart to ask and ask in vain. 

Why are they written — all these lovers' rhymes ? 
14 



THE TOUCH OF LOVING HANDS 



IMITATED 

Light falls the rain-drop on the fallen leaf. 
And light o'er harvest-plain and garnered sheaf — ■ 
But lightlier falls the touch of loving hands. 

Light falls the dusk of mild midsummer night, 
And light the first starts faltering lance of light 
On glimmering lawns, — but lightlier loving hands. 

And light the feathery flake of early snows, 
Or wisp of thistle-down that no wind blows. 
And light the dew, — ^but lightlier loving hands. 

Light-falling dusk, or dew, or summer rain. 
Or down of snow or thistle — all are vain, — 
Far lightlier falls the touch of loving hands. 



15 



A TEST 

'TwAS a test I designed, in a quiet conceit 

Of myself, and the thoroughly fixed and complete 

Satisfaction I felt in the utter control 

Of the guileless young heart of the girl of my soul. 

So — vfe parted. I said it were better we should — 
That she could forget me — I knew that she could ; 
For I never was worthy so tender a heart. 
And so for her sake it were better to part. 

She averted her gaze, and she sighed and looked sad 
As I held out my hand — for the ring that she had — 
With the bitterer speech that I hoped she might be 
Resigned to look up and be happy with me. 

'Twas a test, as I said — ^but God pity your grief, 
At a moment like this when a smile of relief 
Shall leap to the lips of the woman you prize. 
And no mist of distress in her glorious eyes. 



16 



A SONG FOE CHEISTMAS 

Chant me a rhyme of Christmas — 

Sing me a jovial song, — 
And though it is filled with laughter, 

Let it be pure and strong. 

Let it be clear and ringing, 
And though it mirthful be. 

Let a low, sweet voice of pathos 
Eun through the melody. 

Sing of the hearts brimmed over 
With the story of the day — 

Of the echo of childish voices 
That will not die away. — 

Of the blare of the tasselled bugle. 
And the timeless clatter and beat 

Of the drum that throbs to muster 
Squadrons of scampering feet. — 

Of the wide-eyed look of wonder. 
And the gurgle of baby-glee. 

As the infant hero wrestles 

Prom the smiling father's knee. 
17 



A SONG FOR CHRISTMAS 

Sing the delights •unbounded 
Of the home unknown of care, 

Where wealth as a guest abideth. 
And want is a stranger there. 

But let your voice fall fainter. 
Till, blent with a minor tone. 

You temper your song with the beauty 
Of the pity Christ hath shown: 

And sing one verse for the voiceless ; 

And yet, ere the song be done, 
A verse for the ears that hear not. 

And a verse for the sightless one: 

And one for the outcast mother. 
And one for the sin-defiled 

And hopeless sick man dying. 
And one for his starving child. 

For though it be time for singing 

A merry Christmas glee. 
Let a low, sweet voice of pathos 

Eun through the melody. 



18 



SU]^ AND EAIIsT 

All day the sun and rain have been as friends. 
Each vying with the other which shall be 
Most generous in dowering earth and sea 

With their glad wealth, till each, as it descends, 

Is mingled with the other, where it blends 
In one warm, glimmering mist that falls on me 
As once God's smile fell over Galilee. 

The lily-cup, filled with it, droops and bends 
Like some white saint beside a sylvan shrine 

In silent prayer ; the roses at my feet. 
Baptized with it as with a crimson wine. 

Gleam radiant in grasses grown so sweet, 
The blossoms lift, with tenderness divine. 
Their wet eyes heavenward with these of mine. 



19 



WITH HER FACE 

"With her face between ids hands ! 
Was it any wonder she 
Stood atiptoe tremblingly? 
As his lips along the strands 
Of her hair went lavishing 
Tides of kisses, such as swing 
Love's arms to like iron bands. — 
With her face between his hands! 

And the hands — the hands that pressed 
The glad face — Ah ! where are they ? 
Folded limp, and laid away 
Idly over idle breast? 
He whose kisses drenched her hair. 
As he caught and held her there, 
In Love's alien, lost lands. 
With her face between his hands? 

Was it long and long ago. 

When her face was not as now, 
Dim with tears ? nor wan her brow 

As a winter-night of snow? 

Nay, anointing still the strands 

Of her hair, his kisses flow 

Flood-wise, as she dreaming stands. 

With her face between his hands. 
20 



MY NIGHT 

Hush ! husli ! list, heart of mine, and hearken low ! 
You do not guess how tender is the Night, 
And in what faintest murmurs of delight 

Her deep, dim-throated utterances flow 

Across the memories of long-ago ! 

Hark! do your senses catch the exquisite 
Staccatos of a hird that dreams he sings? 

Nay, then, you hear not rightly, — 'tis a blur 
Of misty love-notes, laughs and whisperings 

The Night pours o'er the lips that fondle her. 

And that faint breeze, filled with all fragrant sighs,- 
That is her breath that quavers lover-wise — 

blessed sweetheart, with thy swart, sweet kiss. 

Baptize me, drown me in black swirls of bliss ! 



21 



THE HOUE BEFOEE THE DAWN" 

The hour before the dawn ! 

ye who grope therein, with fear and dread 

And agony of sonl, be comforted, 
Knowing, ere long, the darkness will be gone. 

And down its duslcy aisles the light be shed ; 
Therefore, in ntter trust, fare on — fare on, 

This hour before the dawn! 



22 



GOOD-BY, OLD YEAR 

GooD-BY^ Old Year ! 

Good-by ! 
We have been happy — ^you and I; 
We have been glad in many ways ; 
And now, that yon have come to die, 

Eemembering our happy days, 
'Tis hard to say, "Good-by — 
Good-by, Old Year ! 
Good-by r 

Good-by, Old Year! 

Good-by ! 
We have seen sorrow — ^yon and I — 

Such hopeless sorrow, grief and care. 
That now, that you have come to die, 

Eemembering our old despair, 
^Tis sweet to say, "Good-by — 
Good-by, Old Year ! 
Good-by!" 



33 



FALSE AND TRUE 

One said: "Here is my hand to lean upon 
As long as yon may need it." And one said: 
"Believe me true to you till I am dead." 

And one, whose dainty way it was to fawn 

About my face, with mellow fingers drawn 
Most soothingly o'er brow and drooping head. 
Sighed tremulously : "Till my breath is fled 

Know I am faithful !" . . . Now, all these are gone 
And many like to them — and yet I make 

No bitter moan above their grassy graves — 
Alas ! they are not dead for me to take 

Such sorry comfort ! — but my heart behaves 
Most graciously, since one who never spake 
A vow is true to me for true love's sake. 



24 



A BALLAD FEOM APEIL 

I AM dazed and bewildered with living 

A life but an intricate skein 
Of hopes and despairs and thanksgiving 

Wound up and unravelled again — 
Till it seems, whether waking or sleeping, 

I am wondering ever the while 
At a something that smiles when I'm weeping. 

And a something that weeps when I smile. 

And I walk through the world as one dreaming 

Who knows not the night from the day. 
For I look on the stars that are gleaming. 

And lo, they have vanished away : 
And I look on the sweet-summer daylight, 

And e'en as I gaze it is fled. 
And, veiled in a cold, misty, gray light, 

The winter is there in its stead. 

I feel in my palms the warm fingers 
Of numberless friends — and I look. 

And lo, not a one of them lingers 
To give back the pleasure he took; 
25 



A BALLAD FROZM APRIL 

And I lift my sad eyes to the faces 

All tenderly fixed on my own. 
But they wither away in grimaces 

That scorn me, and leave me alone. 

And I turn to the woman that told me 

Her love would live on until death — 
But' her arms they no longer enfold me. 

Though barely the dew of her breath 
Is dry on the forehead so pallid 

That droops like the weariest thing 
O'er this most inharmonious ballad 

That ever a sorrow may sing. 

So I'm dazed and bewildered with living 

A life but an intricate skein 
Of hopes and despairs and thanksgiving 

Wound up and unravelled again — 
Till it seems, whether waking or sleeping, 

I am wondering ever the while 
At a something that smiles when I'm weeping. 

And a something that weeps when I smile. 



26 



BEUDDER SIMS 

Dah's Brudder Sims ! Dast slam yo' Bible sliet 
An' lef dat man alone — kase he's de boss 
Ob all de preachahs ev' I come across ! 

Day's no twis' in dat gospil book, I bet, 

TJt Brndder Sims cain't splanify, an' set 

You' min' at eaze ! Wat's Moses an' de Laws ? 
Wat's fo'ty days an' nights nt ISToey toss 

Aronn' de Dil-ooge ?— Wat dem Chillen et 
De Lo'd rain down? Wat s'prise ole Joney so 

In dat whale's inna'ds? — ^Wat dat laddah mean 
Ut Jacop see? — an' wha' dat laddah go? — 

"Who dim dat laddah? — Wha' dat laddah lean? — 
An' wha' dat laddah now? "Dast chalk yo' toe 
Wid Faith/' sez Brudder Sims, "an' den you know 



27 



DEFOEMED 

Crouched at the corner of the street 
She sits all day, with face too white 

And hands too wasted to be sweet 
In anybody^s sight. 

Her form is shrunken, and a pair 
Of crutches leaning at her side 

Are crossed like homely hands in prayer 
At quiet eventide. 

Her eyes — ^two lustrous, weary things — 
Have learned a look that ever aches. 

Despite the ready jinglings 
The passer^s penny makes. 

And, noting this, I pause and muse 
If any precious promise touch 

This heart that has so much to lose 
If dreaming overmuch — 

And, in a vision, mistily 

Her future womanhood appears, — 
A picture framed with agony 

And drenched with ceaseless tears — 
28 



DEFORMED 

Where never lover comes to claim 
The hand outheld so yearningly — 

The laughing babe that lisps her name 
Is but a fantasy! 

And, brooding thus, all swift and wild 
A daring fancy, strangely sweet, 

Comes o'er me, that the crippled child 
That crouches at my feet — 

Has found her head a resting-place 
Upon my shoulder, while my kiss 

Across the pallor of her face 
Leaves crimson trails of bliss. 



29 



FAITH 

The sea was breaking at my feet. 
And looking out across the tide, 

Where placid waves and heaven meet, 
I thought me of the Other Side. 

For on the beach on which I stood 

"Were wastes of sands, and wash, and roar. 

Low clouds, and gloom, and solitude. 
And wrecks, and ruins — nothing more. 

"0, tell me if beyond the sea 

A heavenly port there is !" I cried. 

And back the echoes laughingly 
"There is ! there is !'^ replied. 



30 



THE LOST TIIEILL 

I GROW SO weary, someway, of all things 

That love and loving have vonchsafed to me. 
Since now all dreamed-of sweets of ecstasy 

Am I possessed of: The caress that clings — 

The lips that mix with mine with mnrmurings 
No language may interpret, and the free, 
Unfettered brood of kisses, hungrily 

Feasting in swarms on honeyed blossomings 

Of passion^s fullest flower — For yet I miss 
The essence that alone makes love divine — 

The subtle flavoring no tang of this 

"Weak wine of melody may here define : — 

A something found and lost in the first kiss 
A lover ever poured through lips of mine. 



31 



AT DUSK 

A SOMETHING quiet and subdued 

In all the faces that we meet; 
A sense of rest, a solitude 
O'er all the crowded street; 
The very noises seem to be 
Crude utterings of harmony, 
And all we hear, and all we see. 
Has in it something sweet. 

Thoughts come to us as from a dream 

Of some long- vanished yesterday; 
The voices of the children seem 
Like ours, when young as they; 
The hand of Charity extends 
To meet Misfortune's, where it blends. 
Veiled by the dusk — and oh, my friends. 
Would it were dusk alway ! 



32 



ANOTHER RIDE FROM GHENT TO AIX 

We sprang for the side-holts — ^my gripsack and I — 
It dangled — I dangled — ^we both dangled by. 
"Good speed \" cried mine host, as we landed at last — 
"Speed?" chuckled the watch we went lumbering past; 
Behind shut the switch, and out through the rear door 
I glared while we waited a half hour more. 

I had missed the express that went thundering down 

Ten minutes before to my next lecture town, 

And my only hope left was to catch this "wild freight," 

Which the landlord remarked was "most luckily late — 

But the twenty miles distance was easily done. 

If they run half as fast as they usually run !" 

Not a word to each other — we struck a snail's pace — 
Conductor and brakeman ne'er changing a place — 
Save at the next watering-tank, where they all 
Got out — strolled about — cut their names on the wall. 
Or listlessly loitered on down to the pile 
Of sawed wood just beyond us, to doze for a while. 

33 



ANOTHER EIDE FROM GHENT TO AIX 

^Twas high noon at starting, but while we drew near 
"Arcady" I said, "We'll not make it, I fear ! 
I must strike Aix by eight, and it's three o'clock now; 
Let me stoke up that engine, and I'll show you how \" 
At which the conductor, with patience sublime, 
Smiled up from his novel with, "Plenty of time !" 

At "Trask," as we jolted stock-still as a stone, 

I heard a cow bawl in a five o'clock tone ; 

And the steam from the saw-mill looked misty and thin. 

And the snarl of the saw had been stifled within: 

And a frowzy-haired boy, with a hat full of chips, 

Came out and stared up with a smile on his lips. 

At "Booneville," I groaned, "Can't I telegraph on?" 
No ! Why ? " 'Cause the telegraph-man had just gone 
To visit his folks in Almo" — and one heard 
The sharp snap of my teeth through the throat of a word, 
That I dragged for a mile and a half up the track, 
And strangled it there, and came skulkingly back. 

Again we were off. It was twilight, and more. 

As we rolled o'er a bridge where beneath us the roar 

Of a river came up with so wooing an air 

I mechanic'ly strapped myself fast in my chair 

As a brakeman slid open the door for more light, 

Saying : "Captain, brace up, for your town is in sight ?' 

34 



Ai;rOTHER RIDE FROM GHENT TO AIX 

"How they'll greet me !" — and all in a moment — "che- 

wang !'' 
And the train stopped again, with a bump and a bang. 
What was it? "The section-hands, just in advance/' 
And I spit on my hands, and I rolled up my pants. 
And I clnmb like an imp that the fiends had let loose 
Up out of the depths of that deadly caboose. 

I ran the train's length — I lept safe to the ground — 
And the legend still lives that for five miles around 
They heard my voice hailing the hand-car that yanked 
Me aboard at my bidding, and gallantly cranked. 
As I grovelled and clung, with my eyes in eclipse. 
And a rim of red foam round my rapturous lips. 

Then I cast loose my ulster — each ear-tab let fall — ■ 
Kicked ofi both my shoes — ^let go arctics and all — 
Stood up with the boys — ^leaned — patted each head 
As it bobbed up and down with the speed that we sped ; 
Clapped my hands — laughed and sang — any noise, bad 

or good. 
Till at length into Aix we rotated and stood. 

And all I remember is friends flocking round 
As I unsheathed my head from a hole in the ground ; 
And no voice but was praising that hand-car divine. 
As I rubbed down its spokes with that lecture of mine. 
Which (the citizens voted by common consent) 
Was no more than its due. 'Twas the lecture they meant. 

35 



m THE HEART OF JUNE 

In" the heart of June, love. 

You and I together. 
On from dawn till noon, love. 

Laughing with the weather*, 
Blending both our souls, love. 

In the selfsame tune. 
Drinking all life holds, love. 

In the heart of June. 

In the heart of June, love. 

With its golden weather. 
Underneath the moon, love. 

You and I together. 
Ah! how sweet to seem, love. 

Drugged and half aswoon 
With this luscious dream, love. 

In the heart of June. 



36 



DREAMS 

"Do I sleep, do I dream. 
Do I wonder and doubt — 

'Are things what they seem 
Or is visions about ?^' 

There has always been an inclination, or desire, 
rather, on my part to believe in the mystic — even as far 
back as stretches the gum-elastic remembrance of my 
first "taffy-pullin^ " given in honor of my fifth birthday; 
and the ghost-stories, served by way of ghastly dessert, 
by our hired girl. In fancy I again live over all the 
scenes of that eventful night : — 

The dingy kitchen, with its haunting odors of a thou- 
sand feasts and wash-days; the old bench-legged stove, 
with its happy family of skillets, stewpans and round- 
bellied kettles crooning and blubbering about it. And 
how we children clustered round the genial hearth, with 
the warm smiles dying from our faces just as the em- 
bers dimmed and died out in the open grate, as with 
bated breath we listened to how some one's grandmother 
had said that her first man went through a graveyard 
once, one stormy night, "jest to show the neighbors that 
he wasn't afeard o' nothin'," and how when he was 
just passing the grave of his first wife "something kind 
o' big and white-like, with great big eyes like fire, raised 

37 



DEEAMS 

up from behind the headboard, and kind o' re'ched out 
for him"; and how he turned and fled, "with that-air 
white thing after him as tight as it could jump, and a 
hollerin' Vough-yough-yough !' till you could hear it 
furder'n you could a bullgine," and how, at last, just as 
the brave and daring intruder was clearing two graves 
and the fence at one despairing leap, the "white thing,'' 
had made a grab at him with its iron claws, and had 
nicked him so close his second wife was occasioned the 
onerous duty of affixing another patch in his panta- 
loons. And in conclusion, our hired girl went on to 
state that this blood-curdling incident had so wrought 
upon the feelings of "the man that wasn't afeard o' 
nothin'," and had given him such a distaste for that 
particular graveyard, that he never visited it again, and 
even entered a clause in his will to the effect that he 
would ever remain an unhappy corpse should his re- 
mains be interred in said graveyard. 

I forgot my pop-corn that night; I forgot my taffy; 
I forgot all earthly things ; and I tossed about so fever- 
ishly in my little bed, and withal so restlessly, that more 
than once my father's admonition above the footboard 
of the big bed, of "Drat you ! go to sleep, there !" fore- 
shadowed my impending doom. And once he leaned 
over and made a vicious snatch at me, and holding me 
out at arm's length by one leg, demanded in thunder- 
tones, "what in the name o' flames and flashes I meant, 
anyhow I" 

38 



DREAMS 

I was afraid to stir a muscle from that on, in conse- 
quence of which I at length straggled off in fitful 
dreams — and heavens ! what dreams ! — A very long and 
lank, and slim and slender old woman in white knocked 
at the door of my vision, and I let her in. She patted 
me on the head — and oh ! how cold her hands were ! 
And they were very hard hands, too, and very heavy — 
and, horror of horrors ! — they were not hands — ^they 
were claws ! — ^they were iron ! — ^they were like the things 
I had seen the hardware man yank nails out of a keg 
with. I quailed and shivered till the long and slim and 
slender old woman jerked my head up and snarled spite- 
fully, "What's the matter with you, bub/' and I said, 
"N'awthin' !'' and she said, "Don't you dare to lie to 
me !" I moaned. 

"Don't you like me?" she asked. 

I hesitated. 

^^And lie if you dare !" she said — "Don't you like 
me?" 

"Oomh-oomh!" said I. 

"Why?" said she. 

^^Cos, you're too long — and slim — an'" — 

"Go on !" said she. 

"—And tall!" said I. 

"Ah, ha!" said she,— "and that's it, hey?" 

And then she began to grow shorter and thicker, and 
fatter and squattier. 

"And how do I suit you now?" she wheezed at length, 
39 



DREAMS 

when she had wilted down to about the size of a large 
loaf of bread. 

I shook more violently than ever at the fearful spec- 
tacle. 

*^How do you like me now ?" she yelped again, — '^And 
don't you lie to me neither, or I'll swaller you whole !" 

I writhed and hid my face. 

"Do you like me?'' 

"No-o-oh !" I moaned. 

She made another snatch at my hair. I felt her jagged 
claws sink into my very brain. I struggled and she 
laughed hideously. 

"You don't, hey?" 

"Yes, yes, I do. I love you !" said I. 

"You lie ! You lie !" She shrieked derisively. "You 
know you lie !" and as I felt the iron talons sinking and 
gritting in my very brain, with one wild, despairing 
effort, I awoke. 

I saw the fire gleaming in the grate, and by the light 
it made I dimly saw the outline of the old mantelpiece 
that straddled it, holding the old clock high upon its 
shoulders. I was awake then, and the little squatty 
woman with her iron talons was a dream ! I felt an oily 
gladness stealing over me, and yet I shuddered to be all 
alone. 

If only some one were awake, I thought, whose blessed 
company would drown all recollections of that fearful 
dream; but I dared not stir or make a noise. I could 

^0 



DREAMS 

only hear the ticking of the clock, and my father's sul- 
len snore. I tried to compose my thoughts to pleasant 
themes, but that telescopic old woman in white would 
rise up and mock my vain appeals, until in fancy I again 
saw her altitudinous proportions dwindling into that re- 
pulsive and revengeful figure with the iron claws, and 
I grew restless and attempted to sit up. Heavens ! some- 
thing yet held me by the hair. The chill sweat that be- 
tokens speedy dissolution gathered on my brow. I made 
another effort and arose, that deadly clutch yet fastened 
in my hair. Could it be possible ! The short, white 
woman still held me in her vengeful grasp ! I could see 
her white dress showing from behind either of my ears. 
She still clung to me, and with one wild, unearthly cry 
of "Pap !" I started round the room. 

I remember nothing further, until as the glowing 
morn sifted through the maple at the window, powder- 
ing with gold the drear old room, and baptizing with its 
radiance the anxious group of old home-faces leaning 
over my bed, I heard my father's voice once more rasp- 
ing on my senses — "Now get the booby up, and wash 
that infernal wax out of his hair !" 



41 



BECAUSE 

Why did we meet long years of yore ? 

And why did we strike hands and say : 
^*We will be friends, and nothing more''; 
Why are we mnsing thus to-day? 
Because because was just because. 
And no one knew just why it was. 

Why did I say good-by to you? 

Why did I sail across the main ? 
Why did I love not heaven's own blue 
Until I touched these shores again? 
Because because was just because. 
And you nor I knew why it was. 

Why are my arms about you now. 

And happy tears upon your cheek? 
And why my kisses on your brow ? 
Look up in thankfulness and speak ! 
Because because was just because, 
And only God knew why it was. 



42 



TO THE CEICKET 

The chiming seas may clang; and Tubal Cain 
May clink his tinkling metals as he may; 
Or Pan may sit and pipe his breath away; 

Or Orpheus wake his most entrancing strain 

Till not a note of melody remain ! — 
But thou, cricket, with thy roundelay, 
Shalt laugh them all to scorn ! So wilt thou, pray. 

Trill me thy glad song o'er and o'er again: 
I shall not weary; there is purest worth 

In thy sweet prattle, since it sings the lone 

Heart home again. Thy warbling hath no dearth 

Of childish memories — no harsher tone 
Than we might listen to in gentlest mirth. 
Thou poor plebeian minstrel of the hearth. 



43 



THE OLD-FASHIONED BIBLE 

How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood 

That now but in mem'ry I sadly review ; 
The old meeting-house at the edge of the wildwood, 

The rail fence and horses all tethered thereto; 
The low, sloping roof, and the bell in the steeple. 

The doves that came fluttering out overhead 
As it solemnly gathered the God-fearing people 

To hear the old Bible my grandfather read. 
The old-fashioned Bible — 
The dust-covered Bible — 
The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read. 

The blessed old volume ! The face bent above it — 

As now I recall it — is gravely severe. 
Though the reverent eye that droops downward to love it 

Makes grander the text through the lens of a tear. 
And, as down his features it trickles and glistens. 

The cough of the deacon is stilled, and his head 
Like a haloed patriarch's leans as he listens 
To hear the old Bible my grandfather read. 
The old-fashioned Bible — 
The dust-covered Bible — 
The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read. 

44 



THE OLD-FASHIONED BIBLE 

All! vlio shall look backward with scorn and derision 

And scoff the old book though it uselessly lies 
In the dust of the past, while this newer revision 

Lisps on of a hope and a home in the skies? 
Shall the voice of the Master be stifled and riven? 

Shall we hear but a tithe of the words He has said, 
When so long He has, listening, leaned out of Heaven 

To hear the old Bible my grandfather read? 
The old-fashioned Bible — 
The dust-covered Bible — 
The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read. 



45 



UNCOMFOETED 

Lelloine ! Lelloine ! Don't you hear me calling ? 
Calling througli the night for yon, and calling through 
the day; 
Calling when the dawn is here, and when the dusk is 
falling — 
Calling for my Lelloine the angels lured away ! 

Lelloine ! I call and listen, starting from my pillow — ■ 
In the hush of midnight, Lelloine ! I cry, 

And o'er the rainy window-pane I hear the weeping 
willow 
Trail its dripping leaves like baby-fingers in reply. 

Lelloine, I miss the glimmer of your glossy tresses, 
I miss the dainty velvet palms that nestled in my own ; 

And all my mother-soul went out in answerless caresses, 
And a storm of tears and kisses when you left me here 
alone. 

I have prayed, Lelloine, but Heaven will not hear me, 
I can not gain one sign from Him who leads you by 
the hand; 
And it seems that ne'er again His mercy will come 
near me — 
That He will never see my need, nor ever understand. 
46 



UN"COMFORTED 



Won't you listen, Lelloine ? — just a little leaning 

O'er the walls of Paradise — ^lean and hear my prayer, 

And interpret death to Him in all its awful meaning, 
And tell Him you are lonely without your mother there. 



47 



WHAT THEY SAID 

Whispering to themselves apart. 
They who knew her said of her, 
^^Dying of a broken heart — 
Death her only comforter — 

For the man she loved is dead — 
She will follow soon ?' they said. 

Beautiful ? Ah ! brush the dust 

From Raphaels fairest face, 
And restore it, as it must 

First have smiled back from its place 
On his easel as he leant 
Wrapt in awe and wonderment ! 

Why, to kiss the very hem 

Of the mourning-weeds she wore. 
Like the winds that rustled them, 
I had gone the round world o'er ; 
And to touch her hand I swear 
All things dareless I would dare ! 

But unto themselves apart. 

Whispering, they said of her, 
"Dying of a broken heart — 

48 



WHAT THEY SAID 

Death her only comforter — 

Por the man she loved is dead — • 
She will follow soon !" they said. 

So I mutely turned away. 

Turned with sorrow and despair. 
Yearning still from day to day 
For that woman dying there, 
Till at last, by longing led, 
I returned to find her — dead? 

"Dead?" — I know that word would tell 

Ehyming there — ^but in this case 
"Wed" rhymes equally as well 
In the very selfsame place — 
And, in fact, the latter word 
Is the one she had preferred. 

Yet unto themselves apart. 

Whispering they had said of her— 
^^Dying of a broken heart — 
Death her only comforter — 

For the man she loved is dead — - 
She will follow soon !" they said. 



49 



AFTER THE EEOST 

Aftee the frost! the rose is dead, 
And the weeds lie pied in the garden-bed. 
And the peach tree^s shade in the wan sunshine, 
Faint as the veins in these hands of mine, 
Streaks the gray of the orchard wall 
Where the vine rasps loose, and the last leaves fall. 
And the bare bonghs writhe, and the winds are lost — 
After the frost — the frost ! 

After the frost ! the weary head 
And the hands and the heart -are quieted ; 
And the lips we loved are locked at last. 
And kiss not back, though the rain falls fast 
And the lashes drip, and the soul makes moan. 
And on through the dead leaves walks alone 
Wliere the bare boughs writhe and the winds are lost — 
After the frost — the frost ! 



50 



CHARLES H. PHILLIPS 

OBIT NOVEMBER 5tH^ 1881 

feiend! There is no way 
To bid farewell to thee ! 

The words that we would say 

Above thy grave to-day 

Still falter and delay 
And fail ns utterly. 

When walking with ns here, 

The hand we loved to press 
Was gentle, and sincere 
As thy frank eyes were clear 
Through every smile and tear 
Of pleasure and distress. 

In years, young; yet in thought 

Mature; thy spirit, free. 
And fired with fervor caught 
Of thy proud sire, who fought 
His way to fame, and taught 
Its toilsome way to thee. 
51 



CHARLES H. PHILLIPS 

So even thou hast gained 

The victory God-given — 
Yea, as our cheeks are stained 
"With tears, and our souls pained 
And mute, thou hast attained 
Thy high reward in Heaven! 



WHEN IT EAINS 

"When it rains, and witH the rain 

Never bird has heart to sing. 
And across the window-pane 

Is no sunlight glimmering; 
When the pitiless refrain 

Brings a tremor to the lips. 
Our tears are like the rain 

As it drips, drips, drips — 

Like the sad, unceasing rain as it drips. 

When the light of heaven's blue 

Is blurred and blotted quite. 
And the dreary day to you 

Is but a long twilight ; 
When it seems that ne'er again 

Shall the sun break its eclipse. 
Our tears are like the rain 

As it drips, drips, drips — 

Like the endless, friendless rain as it d^ips. 

When it rains ! weary heart, 

be of better cheer ! 
The leaden clouds will part, 

And the morrow will be clear; 
53 



WHEK IT RAINS 

Take up your load again. 

With a prayer upon your lips, 
Thanking Heaven for the rain 

As it drips, drips, drips — 

With the golden bow of promise as it drips. 



54 



AN ASSASSIN 

Cat-like he creeps along where ways are dim, 

From covert iinto covert^s secrecy; 
His shadow in the moonlight shrinks from him 
And crouches warily. 

He hugs strange envies to his breast, and nurses 

Wild hatreds, till the murderous hand he grips 
Falls, quivering with the tension of the curses 
He launches from his lips. 

Drenched in his victim^s blood he holds high revel ; 

He mocks at justice, and in all men's eyes 
Insults his God — and no one but the devil 
Is sorry when he dies. 



55 



BEST OF ALL 

Op all good gifts that the Lord lets fall. 
Is not silence the best of all? 

The deep, sweet hush when the song is closed, 
And every sound but a voiceless ghost; 

And every sigh, as we listening leant, 
A breathless quiet of vast content? 

The laughs we laughed have a purer ring 
With but their memory echoing; 

And the joys we voiced, and the words we said. 
Seem so dearer for being dead. 

So of all good gifts that the Lord lets fall, 
Is not silence the best of all? 



56 



BllSr A-FISHIN' 

W^EN- de sun's gone down, un de moon is riz. 

Bin a-fishin^ ! Bin a-fishin' ! 
It's I's aguine down wha' the by-o is ! 

Bin a-fishin' all night long ! 

Chorus 

Bin a-iishin'! Bin a-fishin'! 

Bin a-fishin' clean fum de dusk of night 

Twell away 'long on in de mornin' light. 

Bait my hook, nn I plunk her down ! 

Bin a-fishin' ! Bin a-fishin' ! 
Un 1 lay dat catfish weigh five pound ! 

Bin a-fishin' all night long! 

Chorus 

Folks tells me ut a sucker won't bite. 

Bin a-fishin' ! Bin a-fishin' ! 
Yit I lif out fo' last Chuesday night. 

Bin a-fishin' all night long ! 
57 



BIN" A-FISHIN' 

Chorus 

Little fish nibble un de big fisli come; 

Bin a-fishin' ! Bin a-fishin^ ! 
'^Gro way, little fish ! I want some V 

Bin a-fishin' all night long! 

Chorus 

Sez de bull frog, '^D-rnnk !" sez de ole owl, ''Whoo P 

Bin a-fishin' ! Bin a-fishin' ! 
'Spec, Mr. Nigger, dey's a-meanin' yon, 

Bin a-fishin' all night long! 

Chorus 



68 



UNCLE DAN'L IN TOWN OYER SUNDAY 

I cain't git used to city ways — 
Ner never could, I' bet my hat ! 
Jevver know jes^ whur I was raised? — 
Raised on a farm ! D' ever tell you that ? 
Was undoubtatly, I declare ! 
And now, on Sunday — fun to spare 
Around a farm ! Why jes' to set 
Up on the top three-cornered rail 
Of Pap's old place, nigh La Fayette, 
I'd swap my soul off, hide and tail ! 
You fellers in the city here, 
You don't know nothin' ! — S'pose to-day, 
This clatterin' Sunday, you waked up 
Without no jinglin'-janglin' bells, 
Ner rattlin' of the milkman's cup, 
Ner any swarm of screechin' birds 
Like these here English swallers — S'pose 
Ut you could miss all noise like those. 
And git shet o' thinkin' of 'em af terwerds. 
And then, in the country, wake and hear 
Nothin' but silence — wake and see 
Nothin' but green woods fur and near ? — 
What sort o' Sunday would that be ? . . . 
Wieht I hed you home with me ! 
59 



UNCLE DAN'l in TOWN OVER SUNDAY 

Now think ! The laziest of all days — 
To git up any time — er sleep — 
Er jes' lay round and watch the haze 
A-dancin' 'crost the wheat, and keep 
My pipe a-goem laisurely. 
And pnff and whiff as pleases me — 
And ef I leave a trail of smoke 
Clean through the house, no one to say, 
"Wah ! throw that nasty thing away ; 
Hev some regyard f er decency ?' 
To walk round barefoot, if you choose; 
Er saw the fiddle — er dig some bait 
And go a-fishin' — er pitch hoss shoes 
Out in the shade somewhurs, and wait 
For dinner-time, with an appetite 
Ut folks in town cain't equal quite ! 
To laze around the barn and poke 
Eer hens' nests — er git up a match 
Betwixt the boys, and watch 'em scratch 
And rassle round, and sweat and swear 
And quarrel to their hearts' content; 
And me a-jes' a-settin' there 
A-hatchin' out more devilment ! 
What sort o' Sunday would that be ? . . 
Wisht I hed you home with me ! 



60 



SOLDIEES HERE TO-DAY 



Soldiers and saviours of the homes we love; 

Heroes and patriots who marched away, 
And who marched back, and who marched on above — ■ 
All — all are here to-day ! 

By the dear cause you fought for — ^you are here ; 

At summons of bugle, and the drum 
Whose palpitating syllables were ne'er 
More musical, you come! 

Here — ^by the stars that bloom in fields of blue, 
And by the bird above with shielding wings ; 
And by the flag that floats out over you, 
With silken beckonings — 

Ay, here beneath its folds are gathered all 

Who warred unscathed for blessings that it gave — 
Still blessed its champion, though it but fall 
A shadow on his grave ! 
61 



SOLDIEKS HEEE TO-DAY 
II 

We greet you, Victors, as in vast array 

You gather from the scenes of strife and death — 
From spectral fortress walls where curls away 
The cannon^s latest breath. 

We greet you — from the crumbling battlements 

Where once again the old flag feels the breeze 
Stroke out its tattered stripes and smooth its rents 
With rippling ecstasies. 

From living tombs where every hope seemed lost — 

With famine quarantined by bristling guns — 
The prison pens — the guards — the ^'^dead-line" crossed 
By — riddled skeletons ! 

From furrowed plains, sown thick with bursting shells — 
From mountain gorge, and toppling crags overhead — 
From wards of pestilential hospitals, 
And trenches of the dead. 



Ill 



In fancy all are here. The night is o'er. 

And through dissolving mists the morning gleams ; 
And clustered round their hearths we see once more 
The heroes of our dreams. 
63 



SOLDIERS HERE TO-DAY 

Strong, tawny faces, some, and some are fair. 
And some are marked with age's latest prime, 
And, seer-like, browed and aureoled with hair 
As hoar as winter-time. 

The faces ©f fond lovers, glorified — 

The faces of the husband and the wife — 
The babe's face nestled at the mother's side, 
And smiling back at life ; 

A bloom of happiness in every cheek — 

A thrill of tingling joy in every vein — 
In every sonl a rapture they will seek 
In Heaven, and find again! 



IV 



'Tis not a vision only — ^we who pay 

But the poor tribute of our praises here 
Are equal sharers in the guerdon they 
Purchased at price so dear. 

The angel, Peace, o'er all uplifts her hand. 
Waving the olive, and with heavenly eyes 
Shedding a light of love o'er sea and land 
As sunshine from the skies — ■ . 
63 



SOLDIERS HERE TO-DAY 

Her figure pedestalled on Freedom's soil — 

Her sandals kissed with seas of golden grain — 
Queen of a realm of joy-requited toil 
That glories in her reign. 

blessed land of labor and reward ! 

gracious Euler, let Thy reign endure; 
In pruning-hook and ploughshare beat the sword, 
And reap the harvest sure ! 



64 



SHADOW AND SHINE 

Storms of the winter, and deepening snows, 

When will yon end? I said, 
For the sonl within me was numb with woes. 

And my heart uncomforted. 
When will you cease, dismal days ? 

When will you set me free? 
Tor the frozen world and its desolate ways 

Are all unloved of me ! 

I waited long, but the answer came — 

The kiss of the sunshine lay 
Warm as a flame on the lips that frame 

The song in my heart to-day. 
Blossoms of summer-time waved in the air, 

Glimmers of sun in the sea; 
Fair thoughts followed me everywhere. 

And the world was dear to me. 



65 



THAT NIGHT 

You and I, and that night, with its perfume and 
glory !— 
The scent of the locusts — the light of the moon ; 
And the violin weaving the waltzers a story, 
Enmeshing their feet in the weft of the tune. 
Till their shadows uncertain 
Eeeled round on the curtain, 
While under the trellis we drank in the June. 

Soaked through with the midnight the cedars were sleep- 
ing, 
Their shadow}^ tresses outlined in the bright 
Crystal, moon-smitten mists, where the fountain's heart, 
leaping 
Forever, forever burst, full with delight; 
And its lisp on my spirit 
Fell faint as that near it 
Whose love like a lily bloomed out in the night. 

your love was an odorous sachet of blisses ! 

The breath of your fan was a breeze from Cathay ! 
And the rose at your throat was a nest of spilled kisses ! — 
And the music ! — in fancy I hear it to-day. 
As I sit here, confessing 
Our secret, and blessing 
My rival who found us, and waltzed you away. 
66 



AUGUST 

MELLOW month and merry month. 
Let me make love to you, 

And follow you around the world 
As knights their ladies do. 

1 thought your sisters beautiful. 
Both May and April, too. 

But April she had rainy eyes. 
And May had eyes of blue. 

And June — I liked the singing 

Of her lips — and liked her smile — 
But all her songs were promises 

Of something, after while; 
And July's face — the lights and shades 

That may not long beguile 
With alterations o'er the wheat 

The dreamer at the stile. 

But you ! — ah, you are tropical, 

Your beauty is so rare ; 
Your eyes are clearer, deeper eyes 

Than any, anywhere; 
Mysterious, imperious. 

Deliriously fair, 
listless Andalusian maid, 

With bangles in your hair ! 
67 



THE GUIDE 



IMITATED 



We rode across the level plain — 
We — my sagacious guide and I. — 
He knew the earth — the air — the sky; 
He knew when it would blow or rain. 
And when the weather would be dry : 
The blended blades of grass spake out 
To him when Eedskins were about; 
The wagon tracks would tell him too, 
The very day that they rolled through : 
He knew their burden — ^whence they came — 
If any horse along were lame. 
And what its owner ought to do; 
He knew when it would snow; he knew. 
By some strange intuition, when 
The buffalo would overflow 
The prairies like a flood, and then 
Eecede in their stampede again. 
He knew all things — ^yea, he did know 
The brand of liquor in my flask. 
And many times did tilt it up, 
Nor halt or hesitate one whit, 
Nor pause to slip the silver cup 
68 



THE GUIDE 

Prom off its crystal base, nor ask 
Why I preferred to drink from it. 
And more and more I plied him, and 
Did query of him o'er and o'er. 
And seek to lure from him the lore 
By which the man did understand 
These hidden things of sky and land : 
And, wrought upon, he sudden drew 
His bridle — ^wheeled, and caught my hand — 
Pressed it, as one that loved me true. 
And bade me listen. 
There be few- 
Like tales as strange to listen to ! 
He told me all — How, when a child. 
The Indians stole him — ^there he laughed — 
"They stole me, and I stole their craft !" 
Then slowly winked both eyes, and smiled. 
And went on ramblingly, — "And they — 
They reared me, and I ran away — 
'Twas winter, and the weather wild; 
And, caught up in the awful snows 
That bury wilderness and plain, 
I struggled on until I froze 
My feet ere human hands again 
"Were reached to me in my distress, — ' 
And lo, since then not any rain 
May fall upon me anywhere, 
Nor any cyclone's cussedness 



THE GUIDE 

Slip up behind me unaware, — 
Nor any change of cold, or heat. 
Or blow, or snow, but I do know 
It's coming, days and days before; — 
I know it by my frozen feet — 
I know it by my itching heels. 
And by the agony one feels 
Who knows that scratching nevermore 
Will bring to him the old and sweet 
Eelief he knew ere thus endowed 
AVith knowledge that a certain cloud 
Will burst with storm on such a day. 
And when a snow will fall, and — nay, 
I speak not falsely when I say 
That by my tingling heels and toes 
I measure time, and can disclose 
The date of month — the week — and lo. 
The very day and minute — ^yea — 
Look at your watch ! — An hour ago 
And twenty minutes I did say 
Unto myself with bitter laugh, 
'^In less than one hour and a half 
Will I be drunken!' Is it so?" 



70 



SUTTER'S CLAIM 



IMITATED 



Say ! yon feller ! You — 
With that spade and the pick ! — 

What do you 'pose to do 
On this side o' the crick? 

Goin' to tackle this claim? Well, I reckon 
You'll let up ag'in, purty quick ! 

No bluff, understand, — 

But the same has been tried, 
And the claim never panned — 

Or the fellers has lied, — 
For they tell of a dozen that tried it. 

And quit it most onsatisfied. 

The luck's dead ag'in it ! — 

The first man I see 
That stuck a pick in it 

Proved tliat thing to me, — 
For he sort o' took down, and got homesick. 

And went back whar he'd orto be ! 
71 



suttee's claim 

Then others they worked it 

Some — ^more or less, 
But finally shirked it, 

In grades of distress, — 
"With an eye out — a jaw or skull busted, 

Or some sort o' seriousness. 

The last one was plucky — 

He wasn't afeerd. 
And bragged he was "lucky," 

And said that "he'd heerd 
A heap of bluff-talk," and swore awkard 

He'd work any claim that he keered ! 

Don't you strike nary lick 

With that pick till I'm through; 
This-here feller talked slick 

And as peart-like as you! 
And he says : "I'll abide here 

As long as I please !" 
But he didn't. ... He died here — 

And I'm his disease ! 



72 



HBE LIGHT GUITAE 

She twankled a tune on her light guitar — 
A low, sweet jangle of tangled sounds, 
As blurred as the voices of the fairies are. 
Dancing in moondawn dales and downs; 
And the tinkling drip of the strange refrain 
Ean over the rim of my soul like rain. 

The great blond moon in the midnight skies 

Paused and poised o'er the trellis eaves, 
And the stars, in the light of her upturned eyes, 
Sifted their love through the rifted leaves. 
Glittered and splintered in crystal mist 
Down the glittering strings that her fingers kissed. 

the melody mad ! the tinkle and thrill 

Of the ecstasy of the exquisite thing ! 
The red rose dropped from the window-sill 
And lay in a long swoon quivering ; 

While the dying notes of the strain divine 
Eippled in glee up my spellbound spine. 



V3 



WHILE CIGAEETTES TO ASHES TURN 



^^He smokes — and that's enough," says Ma- 
"And cigarettes, at that !" says Pa. 

"He must not call again," says she — 
"He shall not call again!" says he. 

They both glare at me as before — 

Then quit the room and bang the door. — 

While I, their wilful daughter, say, 
"I guess I'll love him, anyway !" 



II 



At twilight, in his room, alone. 
His careless feet inertly thrown 

Across a chair, my fancy can 

But worship this most worthless man ! 

I dream what joy it is to set 
His slow lips round a cigarette, 

74 



WHILE CIGARETTES TO ASHES TURN 

With idle-humored whiff and puff— 
Ah ! this is innocent enough ! 

To mark the slender fingers raise 
The waxen match's dainty blaze, 

Whose chastened light an instant glows 
On drooping lids and arching nose, 

Then, in the sudden gloom, instead, 
A tiny ember, dim and red. 

Blooms languidly to ripeness, then 
Fades slowly, and grows ripe again. 

Ill 

I lean back, in my own boudoir — 
The door is fast, the sash ajar; 

And in the dark, I smiling stare 
At one wide window over there. 

Where some one, smoking, pinks the gloom, 
The darling darkness of his room ! 

I push my shutters wider yet. 
And lo ! I light a cigarette ; 

75 



WHILE CIGARETTES TO ASHES TURN 

And gleam for gleam, and glow for glow. 
Each pulse of light a word we know, 

"We talk of love that still will burn 
While cigarettes to ashes turn. 



76 



TWO SONNETS TO THE JUNE-BUa 



Tou make me jes' a little nervouser 

Than any dog-gone bug I ever see ! 

And you know night's the time to pester me — 
When any tetch at all '11 rub the fur 
Of all my patience backwards ! You're the mjrrrhi 

And ruburb of my life ! A bumblebee 

Cain't hold a candle to you; and a he 
Bald hornet, with a laminated spur 
In his hip pocket, daresent even cheep 

When you're around ! And, dern ye ! you have made 
Me lose whole ricks and stacks and piles of sleep, — 

And many of a livelong night I've laid 
And never shut an eye, hearin' you keep 

Up that eternal buzzin' serenade ! 



II 



And I've got up and lit the lamp, and cluni 

On cheers and trunks and wash-stands and bureaus, 
And all such dangerous articles as those, 
And biffed at you with brooms, and never come 
^In two feet of you, — maybe skeered you some, — 
77 



TWO SONNETS TO THE JUNE-BUG 

But what does that amount to when it throws 

A feller out o' balance, and his nose 
Gits barked against the mantel, while you hum 
Fer joy around the room, and churn your head 

Ag'inst the ceilin', and draw back and butt 
The plasterin' loose, and drop — ^behind the bed, 

"Where never human-bein^ ever putt 
Harm's hand on you, er ever truthful said 

He'd choked yer dern infernal wizzen shut ! 



78 



AUTOGEAPHIC 

For an Album 

I FEEL^ if aught I ought to rhyme, 
I ought ^a' thought a longer time. 
And ought 'a' caught a higher sense. 
Of autocratic eloquence. 
I ought ^a' sought each haughty Muse 
That taught a thought I ought to use, 
And fought and fraught, and so devised 
A poem unmonofonized. — 
But since all this was vain, I thought 
I ought to simply say, — I ought 
To thank you, as I ouglit to do. 
And ought to bow my best to you; 
And ought to trust not to intrude 
A rudely wrought-up gratitude, 
But ought to smile, and ought to laugh, 
And ought to write — an autograph. 



79 



AN" IMPROMPTU OjST POLLER SKATES 

Rumble, tumble, growl, and grate! 

Skip, and trip, and gravitate! 

Lunge, and plunge, and thrash the planks 

With your blameless, shameless shanks : 

In excruciating pain, 

Stand upon your head again. 

And, uncoiling kink by kink. 

Kick the roof out of the rink ! 

In derisive bursts of mirth. 
Drop ka-whop and jar the earth! 
Jolt your lungs down in your socks. 
Oh! tempestuous equinox 
Of dismembered legs and arms! 
Strew your ways with wild alarms ; 
Eameward skoot and ricochet 
On your glittering vertebrae ! 



80 



WEITTEN m BUNKER'S "AIRS FROM 
ARCADY" 

EVER gracious Airs from Arcady ! 

"What lack is there of any jocund thing 

In glancing wit or glad imagining 
Capricious fancy may not find in thee? — ■ 
The laugh of Momus, tempered daintily 

To lull the ear and lure its listening; 

The whistled syllables the birds of spring 
Flaunt ever at our guessings what they be ; 
The wood, the seashore, and the clanging town ; 

The pets of fashion, and the ways of such ; 
The rohe de cTiambre, and the russet gown; 

The lordling's carriage, and the pilgrim's crutch — 
From hale old Chaucer's wholesomeness, clean down 

To our artistic Dobson's deftest touch! 



81 



m THE AFTEE^TOON 

You in the hammock; and I, near by, 

Was trying to read, and to swing yon, too ; 

And the green of the sward was so kind to the eye, 
And the shade of the maples so cool and blue, 
That often I looked from the book to you 

To say as much, with a sigh. 

You in the hammock. The book we'd brought 
From the parlor — to read in the open air, — 

Something of love and of Launcelot 
And Guinevere, I believe, was there — 
But the afternoon, it was far more fair 

Than the poem was, I thought. 

You in the hammock; and on and on 

I droned and droned through the rhythmic stuff- 
But, with always a half of my vision gone 
Over the top of the page — enough 
To caressingly gaze at you, swathed in the fluff 
Of your hair and your odorous "lawn." 
83 



IN THE AFTERNOON" 

You in the hammock — and that was a year- 
Fully a year ago, I guess — 

And what do we care for their Guinevere 
And her Launcelot and their lordliness !- 
You in the hammock still, and — ^Yes — 

Kiss me again, my dear ! 



83 



AT MADAME MANICUEE'S 

Daintiest of Manicures ! 
What a cunning hand is yours; 
And how awkward, rude and great 
Mine, as you manipulate ! 
Wonderfully cool and calm 
Are the touches of your palm 
To my fingers, as they rest 
In their rosy, cosey nest, 
While your own, with deftest skill. 
Dance and caper as they will, — 
Armed with instruments that seem 
Gathered from some fairy dream — 
Tiny spears, and simitars 
Such as pixy armorers 
Might have made for jocund fays 
To parade on holidays. 
And flash round in dewy dells, 
Lopping down the lily-bells; 
Or in tilting, o'er the leas. 
At the clumsy bumblebees. 
Splintering their stings, perchance. 
As the knights in old romance 
Snapped the spears of foes that fought 
In the jousts at Camelot! 
84 



Smiling? Dainty Manicure? — 
'Twould delight me, but that you're 
Simply smiling, as I see, 
At my nails and not at me ! 
Haply this is why they glow 
And light up and twinkle so! 



85 



A CALLEE FROM BOONE 

BENJ. F. JOHNSON VISITS THE EDITOR 

It was a dim and chill and loveless afternoon in the 
late fall of eighty-three when I first saw the genial sub- 
ject of this hasty sketch. From time to time the daily 
paper on which I worked had been receiving, among 
the general literary driftage of amateur essayists, poets 
and sketch-writers, some conceits in verse that struck 
the editorial head as decidedly novel; and, as they were 
evidently the production of an unlettered man, and an 
old man, and a farmer at that, they were usually spared 
the waste-basket, and preserved — n-ot for publication, 
but to pass from hand to hand among the members of 
the staff as simply quaint and mirth-provoking speci- 
mens of the verdancy of both the venerable author and 
the Muse inspiring him. Letters as quaint as were the 
poems invariably accompanied them, and the oddity of 
these, in fact, had first called attention to the verses. I 
well remember the general merriment of the oflBce when 
the first of the old man^s letters was read aloud, and I 
recall, too, some of his comments on his own verse, ver- 
batim. In one place he said: "I make no doubt you 
will find some purty sad spots in my poetry, considerin' ; 

86 



A CALLER FROM BOOKE 

but I hope you will bear in mind that I am a great suf- 
ferer with rheumatizum, and have been, off and on, sence 
the cold New Year's. In the main, however,'^ he con- 
tinned, "I alius aim to write in a cheerful, comfortin' 
sperit, so's ef the stuff hangs fire, and don't do no good, 
it hain't a-goin' to do no harm, — and them's my honest 
views on poetry." 

In another letter, evidently suspecting his poem had 
not appeared in print because of its dejected tone, he 
said : "The poetry I herewith send was wrote off on the 
finest Autumn day I ever laid eyes on ! I never felt bet- 
ter in my life. The morning air was as invigoratin' as 
bitters with tanzy in it, and the folks at breakfast said 
they never saw such a' appetite on mortal man before. 
Then I lit out for the barn, and after feedin', I come 
back and tuck my pen and ink out on the porch, and 
jest cut loose. I writ and writ till my fingers was that 
cramped I couldn't hardly let go of the penholder. And 
the poem I send you is the upshot of it alL Ef you don't 
find it cheerful enough fer your columns, I'll have to 
knock under, that's all !" And that poem, as I recall it, 
certainly was cheerful enough for publication, only the 
*^copy" was almost undecipherable, and the ink, too, so 
pale and vague, it was thought best to reserve the verses, 
for the time, at least, and later on revise, copy, punctu- 
ate, and then print it sometime, as much for the joke 
of it as anything. But it was still delayed, neglected, 
and in a week's time almost entirely forgotten. And bo 

87 



A CALLER FROM BOONE 

it was, upon this chill and sombre afternoon I speak of 
that an event occurred which most pleasantly reminded 
me of both the poem with the "sad spots" in it, and the 
"cheerful" one, "writ out on the porch" that glorious 
autumn day that poured its glory through the old man's 
letter to us. 

Outside and in the sanctum the gloom was too oppres- 
sive to permit an elevated tendency of either thought or 
spirit. I could do nothing but sit listless and inert. Pa- 
per and pencil were before me, but I could not write — • 
I could not even think coherently, and was on the point 
of rising and rushing out into the streets for a wild 
walk, when there came a hesitating knock at the door. 

"Come in !" I snarled, grabbing up my pencil and as- 
suming a frightfully industrious air: "Come in!" I 
almost savagely repeated, "Come in ! And shut the door 
behind you !" and I dropped my lids, bent my gaze 
fixedly upon the blank pages before me and began 
scrawling some disconnected nothings with no head or 
tail or anything. 

"Sir ; howdy," said a low and pleasant voice. And at 
once, in spite of my perverse resolve, I looked up. I 
someway felt rebuked. 

The speaker was very slowly, noiselessly closing the 
door. I could hardly face him when he turned around. 
An old man, of sixty-five, at least, but with a face and 
an eye of the most cheery and wholesome expression I 
had ever seen in either youth or age. Over his broad 

88 



A CALLER FROM BOONE 

bronzed forehead and white hair he wore a low-crowned, 
wide-brimmed black felt hat, somewhat rusted now, and 
with the band grease-crusted, and the binding frayed at 
intervals, and sagging from the threads that held it on. 
An old-styled frock coat of black, dull brown in streaks, 
and quite shiny about the collar and lapels. A waist- 
coat of no describable material or pattern, and a clean 
white shirt and collar of one piece, with a black string- 
tie and double bow, which would have been entirely con- 
cealed beneath the long white beard but for its having 
worked around to one side of the neck. The front out- 
line of the face was cleanly shaven, and the beard, grow- 
ing simply from the under chin and throat, lent the old 
pioneer the rather singular appearance of having hair 
all over him with this luxurious growth pulled out above 
his collar for mere sample. 

I arose and asked the old man to sit down, handing 
him a chair decorously. 

"No — no,'^ he said — "I'm much obleeged. I hain't 
come in to bother you no more'n I can he'p. All I wanted 
was to know ef you got my poetry all right. You know 
I take yer paper," he went on, in an explanatory way, 
"and seein' you printed poetry in it once-in-a-while, I 
sent you some of mine — ^neighbors kindo' advised me 
to," he added apologetically, "and so I sent you some — 
two or three times I sent you some, but I hain't never 
seed hide-ner-hair of it in your paper, and as I wus in 
town to-day, anyhow, I jest thought I'd kindo' drap in 

89 



A CALLER PROM BOONE 

and git it back, ef you ain't goin' to print it — ^'canse I 
alius save up most the things I write, aimin' sometime 
to git 'em all struck off in pamphlet-form, to kindo' dis- 
tribit round 'mongst the neighbors, don't you know." 

Already I had begun to suspect my visitor's identity, 
and was mechanically opening the drawer of our poeti- 
cal department. 

"How was your poetry signed?" I asked. 

"Signed by my own name," he answered proudly, — 
"signed by my own name, — Johnson — Benjamin F. 
Johnson, of Boone Count}^ — this state." 

"And is this one of them, Mr. Johnson ?" I asked, un- 
folding a clumsily-folded manuscript, and closely scru- 
tinizing the verse. 

"How does she read?" said the old man eagerly, and 
searching in the meantime for his spectacles. "How does 
she read ? — Then I can tell you !" 

"It reads," said I, studiously conning the old man's 
bold but bad chirography, and tilting my chair back in- 
dolently, — "it reads like this — the first verse does," — 
and I very gravely read : — 

"Oh! the old swimmin'-hole!" 

"Stop! Stop!" said the old man excitedly— "Stop 
right there ! That's my poetry, but that's not the way to 
read it by a long shot ! Give it to me !" and he almost 
snatched it from my hand. "Poetry like this ain't no 
poetry at all, 'less you read it natchurl and in jes the 

90 



A CALLER FROM BOONE 

same sperit 'at it's writ in, don't you understand. It's a' 
old man a-talkin', rickollect, and a-feelin' kindo' sad, 
and yit kindo' sorto' good, too, and I opine he wouldn't 
got that ofi with a face on him like a' undertaker, and 
a voice as solemn as a cow-bell after dark ! He'd say it 
more like this." — And the old man adjusted his spec- 
tacles and read : — ■ 

"THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE" 

"Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deep 
Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep. 
And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below 
Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know 
Before we could remember anything but the eyes 
Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise; 
But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle, 
And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole." 

I clapped my hands in genuine applause. *^^Eead on !" 
I said,— "Eead on! Eead all of it!" 

The old man's face was radiant as he continued :— 



'Oh! the old swimmin*-hole! In the happy days of yore. 

When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore. 

Oh ! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide 

That gazed back at me so gay and glorified, 

It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress 

My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness. 

But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his toll 

From the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole. 

"Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy days 
When the hum-drum of school made so many run-a-ways. 
How pleasant was the jumey down the old dusty lane, 
Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane 

91 



A CALLER FROM BOONE 

You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole 
They was lots o' fun on hands at the old swimmin'-hole. 
But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll 
Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole. 

"Thare the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall. 
And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all; 
And it mottled the worter with amber and gold 
Tel the glad lillies rocked in the ripples that rolled; 
And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered by 
Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky. 
Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze's controle 
As it cut acrost some orchurd to'rds the old swimmin'-hole. 

"Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I last saw the place. 
The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face; 
The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot 
Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot. 
And I strayed down the banks whare the trees ust to be — 
But never again will theyr shade shelter me! 
And I wisht in my sorrow I could strip to the soul. 
And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole.'* 

My applause was long and loud. The old man's inter- 
pretation of the poem was a positive revelation, though 
I was glad enough to conceal from him my moistened 
eyes by looking through the scraps for other specimens 
of his verse. 

"Here," said I enthusiastically, "is another one, 
signed 'Benj. F. Johnson,' read me this," and I handed 
him the poem. 

The old man smiled and took the manuscript. "This- 
here one's on 'Tlie Boss/ " he said, simply clearing his 
throat. "They ain't so much fancy-work about this as 
the other'n, but the/s jest as much jact, you can bet — 
'cause, they're no animal a-livin' 'at I love better 'an 

92 



A CALLER FROM BOONE 
"THE HOSS" 

"The hoss he is a splendud beast; 

He is man's friend, as heaven desined. 
And, search the world from west to east. 

No honester you'll ever find! 

"Some calls the hoss *a pore dumb brute/ 
And yit, like Him who died fer you, 

I say, as I theyr charge refute, 
'Fergive; they know not what they do!* 

"No wiser animal makes tracks 

Upon these earthly shores, and hence 

Arose the axium, true as facts, 
Extoled by all, as 'Good hoss-sense!' 

"The hoss is strong, and knows his stren'th, 
You hitch him up a time er two 

And lash him, and he'll go his len'th 
And kick the dashboard out fer you! 

"But, treat him alius good and kind, 
And never strike him with a stick, 

Ner aggervate him, and you'll find 
He'll never do a hostile trick. 

"A hoss whose master tends him right 
And worters him with daily care. 

Will do your biddin' with delight. 
And act as docile as you air. 

"He'll paw and prance to hear your praise. 
Because he's learnt to love you well; 

And, though you can't tell what he says. 
He'll nicker all he wants to tell. 

"He knows you when you slam the gate 

At early dawn, upon your way 
Unto the barn, and snorts elate. 

To git his corn, er oats, er hay. 

93 



A CALLER FROM BOONE 

"He knows you, as the orphant knows 
The folks that loves her like theyr own, 

And raises her and 'finds' her clothes, 
And 'schools' her tel a womern-grown! 

"I claim no hoss will harm a man, 
Ner kick, ner run away, cavort. 

Stump-suck, er balk, er 'catamaran,* 
Ef you'll jest treat him as you ort 

"But when I see the beast abused 
And clubbed around as I've saw some, 

I want to see his owner noosed. 
And jest yanked up like Absolum! 

"Of course they's differunce in stock, — 

A hoss that has a little yeer. 
And slender build, and shaller hock. 

Can beat his shadder, mighty near! 

"Whilse one that's thick in neck and chist 
And big in leg and full in flank. 

That tries to race, I still insist 
He'll have to take the second rank. 

"And I have jest laid back and laughed. 
And rolled and wallered in the grass 

At fairs, to see some heavy-draft 
Lead out at -first, yit come in last! 

"Each hoss has his appinted place, — 
The heavy hoss should plow the soil; — 

The blooded racer, he must race. 
And win big wages fer his toil, 

"I never bet — ner never wrought 

Upon my feller-man to bet — 
And yit, at times, I've often thought 

Of my convictions with regret. 

94 



A CALLER FROM BOONE 

"I bless the hoss from hoof to head — 
From head to hoof, and tale to mane! — 

I bless the hoss, as I have said, 
From head to hoof, and back again! 

"I love my God the first of all. 
Then Him that perished on the cross, 

And next, my wife, — and then I fall 
Down on my knees and love the hoss." 

Again I applanded, handing the old man still another 
of his poems, and the last received. "Ah!'' said he, as 
his gentle eyes hent on the title; "this-here's the cheer- 
fullest one of 'em all. This is the one writ, as I wrote 
yon abont — on that glorious October morning two weeks 
ago — I thought your paper would print this-un, shore !" 

"Oh, it will print it," I said eagerly; "and it will 
print the other two as well ! It will print anything that 
you may do us the honor to offer, and we'll reward you 
beside just as you may see fit to designate. — But go on 
— go on ! Eead me the poem." 

The old man's eyes were glistening as he responded 
with the poem entitled 

"WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN" 

"When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the 
shock. 

And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey- 
cock. 

And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the 
hens, 

And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence; 

95 



A CALLER FROM BOONE 

O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best. 
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful 

rest. 
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the 

stock. 
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the 

shock. 

"They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere 
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is 

here — 
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the 

trees. 
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the 

bees; 
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the 

haze 
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days 
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock — 
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the 

shock. 



"The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn, 

And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the 

morn; 
The stubble in the furries — kindo* lonesome-like, but still 
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill; 
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed; 
The bosses in theyr stalls below — the clover overhead! — 
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock, 
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the 

shock! 

"Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller 

keeps 
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps; 
And your cider-makin' 's over, and your wimmern-folks is 

through 
With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and 

saussage, tool . .. 

96 



A CALLER FROM BOONE 

I don't know how to tell it — ^but ef sich a thing could be 
As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on 

me — 
I'd want to 'commodate 'em — all the whole-indurin' flock — 
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the 

shock!" 

That was enough ! "Surely," thought I, "here is a dia- 
mond in the rough, and a %em,' too, ^of purest ray se- 
rene' !" I caught the old man's hand and wrung it with 
positive rapture ; and it is needless to go further in ex- 
planation of how the readers of our daily came to an 
acquaintance through its columns with the crude, un- 
polished, yet most gentle genius of Benj. F. Johnson, 
of Boone. 



97 



LOED BACON 

WKITTElSr AS A JOKE AND ASCEIBED TO A VERY PRACTICAL 
BUSINESS MAN, AMOS J. WALKER 

Master of masters in the days of yore, 

When art met insult, with no law's redress ; 

When Law itself insulted Eighteousness, 
And Ignorance thine own scholastic lore. 
And thou thine own judicial office more, — 

What master living now canst love thee less. 

Seeing thou didst thy greatest art repress 
And leave the years its riches to restore 
To us, thy long neglectors. Yield us grace 

To make becoming recompense, and dawn 
On us thy poet-smile; nor let us trace, 

In fancy, where the old-world myths have gone. 
The shade of Shakespeare, with averted face. 

Withdrawn to uttermost oblivion. 



98 



MY FIRST WOMBRN" 

I BURIED my first womern 

In the spring; and in the fall 
I was married to my second, 

And hain't settled yit at all ! — 
Per I'm alius thinkin' — thinkin' 

Of the first one's peaceful ways, 
A-bilin' soap and singin' 

Of the Lord's amazin' grace. 

And I'm thinkin' of her, constant, 

Dyin' carpet chain and stuff. 
And a-makin' up rag carpets, 

When the floor was good enough I 
And I mind her he'p a-feedin'. 

And I riccoUect her now 
A-drappin' corn, and keepin' 

Clos't behind me and the plow I 

And I'm alius thinkin' of her 

Reddin' up around the house ; 
Er cookin' f er the f arm-handa ; 

Er a-drivin' up the cows. — 
And there she lays out yander 

By the lower medder fence, 
Where the cows was barely grazin', 

And they're usin' ever sence. 
99 



MY FIEST WOMEEN 

And when I look acrost there — 

Say it's when the clover's ripe. 
And I'm settin', in the evenin'. 

On the porch here, with my pipe. 
And the other'n hollers "Henry !" — 

Wy they ain't no sadder thing 
Than to think of my first womern 

And her funeral last spring 
Was a year ago — 



100 



AS WE EEAD BUENS 

"Who is speaking ? Who has spoken ? 

Whose voice ceasing thus has broken 

The sweet pathos of our dreams ? 

Sweetest bard of sweetest themes. 
Pouring in each poet-heart 
Some rare essence of your art 
Till it seems your singing lip 
Kisses every pencil tip ! 

Tar across the unknown lands — 
Eeach of heavenly isle and sea — 

How we long to touch the hands 
You outhold so lovingly! 



101 



TO JAMES NEWTO]^ MATTHEWS 

IN ANSWER TO A LETTER ON THE ANATOMY OF THE 
SONNET 

Oho ! ye sunny, sonnet-singin' vagrant, 

Flauntin^ your simmer sangs in sic a weather ! 

Ane maist can straik the bluebells and the heather 
Keekin' aboon the snaw and bloomin^ fragrant ! 
Whiles you, ye whustlin^ brither, sic a lay grant 

0' a' these janglin^, wranglin^ sweets thegither, 

I weel maun perk my ain doon-drappin^ feather 
And pipe a wee : The' boisterous and flagrant 
The winds blow whuzzle-whazzle rhymes that trickle 

Era' aff my tongue less limpid than I'd ha'e them, 
I in their little music hap a mickle 

0' canty praises, a' asklent to weigh them 
Agen your pride, and smile to see them tickle 

The warm nest o' the heart wherein I lay them. 



102 



SONG 

I WOULD I had a lover ! 

A lover ! a lover ! 
I would I had a lover 

With a twinkering guitar, 

To come beneath my casement 
Singing "There is none above her/' 
While I, leaning, seemed to hover 

In the scent of his cigar! 

Then at morn I'd want to meet him — 
To meet him! to meet him! 

at morn I'd want to meet him. 
When the mist was in the sky. 
And the dew along the path I went 

To casually greet him, 

And to cavalierly treat him. 
And regret it by and by. 

And I'd want to meet his brother — 

His brother ! his brother ! 
I'd want to meet his brother 
At the german or the play. 
To pin a rose on his lapel 
And lightly press the other. 
And love him like a mother — 
While he thought the other way. 
103 



SONG 

I'd pitilessly test him ! 

And test him ! and test him ! 
I'd pitilessly test him 

Far beyond his own control; 
And every tantalizing lure 
With which I could arrest him, 
Fd loosen to molest him, 

Till I tried his very soul. 

But ah, when I relented — 

Eelented, relented! 
But ah, when I relented 

When the stars were blurred and dim, 
And the moon above, with crescent grace, 
Looked off as I repented. 
And with rapture half demented, 

All my heart went out to him ! 



104 



WHEN WE THEEE MEET 

When we three meet ? Ah ! friend of mine 
Whose verses well and flow as wine, — 
My thirsting fancy thou dost fill 
With draughts delicious, sweeter still 
Since tasted by those lips of thine. 

I pledge thee, through the chill sunshine 
Of autumn, with a warmth divine, 
Thrilled through as only I shall thrill 
When we three meet. 

I pledge thee, if we fast or dine. 
We yet shall loosen, line by line. 
Old ballads, and the blither trill 
Of our-time singers — for there will 
Be with us all the Muses nine 
When we three meet. 



105 



JOSH BILLINGS 

DEAD IN OALITOENIA^ OCTOBER 15, 1885 

JoLLY-HEAETED old Josh Billings, 

With his wisdom and his wit. 
And his gravity of presence. 

And the drollery of it ! 
Has he left ns, and forever? 

When so many merry years 
He has only left ns laughing — • 

And he leaves ns now in tears ? 

Has he turned from his "Deer Publik,'' 

With his slyly twinkling eyes 
Now grown dim and heavy-lidded 

In despite of sunny skies ? — 
Yet with rugged brow uplifted. 

And the long hair tossed away, 
Like an old heroic lion. 

With a mane of iron-gray. 

Though we lose him, still we find him 

In the mirth of every lip, 
And we fare through all his pages 

In his glad companionship : 
106 



JOSH BILLINGS 

His voice is wed with Nature's, 
Laughing in each woody nook 

With the chirrup of the robin 
And the chuckle of the brook. 

But the children — the children ! — 

They who leaped to his caress. 
And felt his arms about them, 

And his love and tenderness, — 
"Where — where will they find comfort 

As their tears fall like the rain, 
And they swarm his face with kisses 

That he answers not again ? 



107 



WHICH ANE 

Which ane, an' which ane. 

An' which ane for thee ? — 
Here thou hast thy vera choice, 

An' which sail it be ? — 
Ye hae the Holy Brither, 

An' ye hae the Scholarly; 
An', last, ye hae the butt o' baith- 

Which sail it be ? 

Ane's oot o' Edinborough, 

Wi' the Beuk an' Gown; 
An' ane's cam frae Cambridge; 

An 'ane frae scaur an' down: 
An' Deil tak the hindmaist! 

Sae the test gaes roun': 
An' here ye hae the lairdly twa, 

An' ane frae scaur an' down. 

Yon's Melancholy — 

An' the pipes a-skirlin' — 

Gangs limp an' droopet. 
Like a coof at hirlin', — 
108 



WHICH ANE 

Droopet aye his lang skirts 

I' the wins unf urlin' ; 
Yon's Melancholy — 

An' the pipes a-skirlin' ! 

"Which ane, an' which ane, 

An' which ane for thee ? — 
Here thon hast thy vera choice. 

An' which sail it be? 
Ye hae the Holy Brither, 

An' ye hae the Scholarly; 
An', last, ye hae the butt o' baith- 

Which sail it be? 

Elbuck ye'r bag, mon ! 

An' pipe as ye'd burst ! 
Can ye gie's a waur, mon 

E'en than the first?— 
Be it Meister Wisemon, 

I' the classics versed. 
An' a slawer gait yet 

E'en than the first? 

Then gie us Merriment : 
Loose him like a linnet 

Teeterin' on a bloomin' spray — 
We ken him i' the minute, — 
109 



WHICH ANE 

Twinklin' is ane ee asklent, 
Wi' auld Clootie in it— 

Auld Sawney Lintwhite, 
We ken him i^ the minute ! 

An' which ane, an' which ane. 

An' which ane for thee ? — 
For thon shalt hae they vera choice, 

An' which sail it he ? — 
Ye hae the Holy Brither, 

An' ye hae the Scholarly; 
A' last, ye hae the hntt o' baith — ^ 

Which sail it be? 



110 



THE EARTHQUAKE 

CHAELESTON, SEPTEMBER 1, 1886 

An hour ago the lulling twilight leant 
Above us like a gentle nurse who slips 
A slow palm o'er our eyes, in soft eclipse 

Of feigned slumber of most sweet content. 

The fragrant zephyrs of the tropic went 
And came across the senses, like to sips 
Of lovers' kisses, when upon her lips 

Silence sets finger in grave merriment. 

Then — sudden — did the earth moan as it slept. 
And start as one in evil dreams, and toss 

Its peopled arms up, as the horror crept. 

And with vast breast upheaved and rent across. 

Fling down the storied citadel where wept. 
And still shall weep, a world above its loss. 



Ill 



A FALL-CEICK VIEW OF THE EARTHQUAKE 

I KIN hump my back and take the rain. 

And I don^t keer how she pours ; 
I kin keep kind o' ca'm in a thunder-storm, 

1^0 matter how loud she roars ; 
I hain't much skeered o' the lightnin', 

Ner I hain't sich awful shakes 
Afeard o' cyclones — ^but I don't want none 

0' yer dad-burned old earthquakes ! 

As long as my legs keeps stiddy. 

And long as my head keeps plum'. 
And the buildin' stays in the front lot, 

I still kin whistle, some! 
But about the time the old clock 

Flops off'n the mantel-shelf. 
And the bureau skcots fer the kitchen, 

I'm a-goin' to skoot, myself ! 

Plague-take ! ef you keep me stabled 
While any earthquakes is around! — 

Fm Jes' like the stock, — I'll beller 
And break fer the open ground ! 
112 



A FALL-CRICK VIEW OF THE EARTHQUAKE 

And I 'low you'd be as nervous 

And in jes' about my fix. 
When yer whole farm slides from in-under you, 

And on'y the mor'gage sticks ! 

Now cars hain't a-goin' to kill you 

Ef you don't drive 'crost the track; 
Crediters never'U jerk you up 

Ef you go and pay 'em back ; 
You kin stand all moral and mundane storms 

Ef you'll on'y jes' behave — 
But a' EARTHQUAKE : — ^Wcll, ef it wanted you 

It 'ud husk you out o' yer grave ! 



113 



LEWIS D. HAYES 

OBIT DECEMBER 28, 1886 



In the midmost glee of the Christmas 
And the mirth of the glad New Year, 

A guest has turned from the revel, 
And we sit in silence here. 

The band chimes on, yet we listen 

Not to the air's refrain. 
But over it ever we strive to catch 

The sound of his voice again; — 

For the sound of his voice was music. 

Dearer than any note 
Shook from the strands of harp-strings. 

Or poured from the bugle's throat. — 

A voice of such various ranges, 
His utterance rang from the height 

Of every rapture, down to the sobs 
Of every lost delight. 
114 



LEWIS D. HATES 

Though he knew Man's force and his purpose. 

As strong as his strongest peers, 
He knew, as well, the kindly heart, 

And the tenderness of tears. 

So is it the face we remember 

Shall be always as a child's 
That, grieved some way to the very soul, 

Looks bravely up and smiles. 

brave it shall look, as it looked its last 

On the little daughter's face — ' 
Pictured only — against the wall, 

In its old accustomed place — 

Where the last gleam of the lamplight 

Out of the midnight dim 
Yielded its grace, and the earliest dawn 

Gave it again to him. 



115 



m DAYS TO COME 

In days to come — ^whatever ache 
Of age shall rack our bones, or quake 
Our slackened thews — whatever grip 
Eheumatic catch us i' the hip, — 
"We, each one, for the other's sake. 
Will of our very wailings make 
Such quips of song as well may shake 
The spasm'd corners from the lip — 
In days to come. 

Ho ! ho ! how our old hearts shall rake 
The past up ! — how our dry eyes slake 
Their sight upon the dewy drip 
Of juicy-ripe companionship. 
And blink stars from the blind opaque- 
In days to come. 



116 



LUTHEE A. TODD 

OBIT JULY 27, 1887, KANSAS CITY^ MISSOURI 

Gifted^ and loved, and praised 

By every friend; 
Never a murmur raised 

Against him, to the end ! 
With tireless interest 
He wrought as he thought best, — > 

And — lo, we bend 
Where now he takes his rest ! 

His heart was loyal, to 

Its latest thrill. 
To the home-loves he knew— 

And now forever will, — 
Mother and brother — they 
The first to pass away, — 

And, lingering still. 
The sister bowed to-day. 

Pure as a rose might be. 

And sweet, and white. 
His father's memory 

Was with him day and night : — 

117 



LUTHER A. TODD 

He spoke of him, as one 
May now speak of the son, — 

Sadly and tenderly, — 
Yet as a trump had done. 

Say, then, of him : He knew 

Full depths of care 
And stress of pain, and yon 

Do him scant justice there, — 
Yet in the lifted face 
Grief left not any trace, 

Nor mark unfair, 
To mar its manly grace. 

It was as if each day 

Some new hope dawned — 

Each blessing in delay. 
To him, was just beyond ; 

Between whiles, waiting, he 

Drew pictures, cunningly — ' 
Fantastic — fond — 

Things that we laughed to see. 

Sometimes, as we looked on 

His crayon's work, 
Some angel-face would dawn 

Out radiant, from the mirk 

118 



LUTHER A. TODD 

Of features old and thin, 

Or jowled with double-chin, 

And eyes asmirk. 
And gaping mouths agrin. 

That humor in his art. 

Of genius born. 
Welled warmly from a heart 

That could not but adorn 
All things it touched with love — * 
The eagle, as the dove — 

The burst of morn — 
The night — the stars above. 

Sometimes, amid the wild 

Of faces queer, 
A mother, with her child 

Pressed warm and close to her ; 
This, I have thought, somehow, 
The wife, with head abow. 

Unreconciled, 
In the great shadow now. 



you of sobbing breath. 

Put by all sighs 
Of anguish at his death — 

Turn — as he turned his eyes, 
119 



LUTHER A. TODD 



In that last hour, unknown 
In strange lands, all alone — 

Turn thine eyes toward the skies, 
'And, smiling, cease thy moan. 



120 



WHEN THE HEARSE COMES BACK 

A THING 'at's 'bout as tryin' as a healthy man kin meet 
Is some poor feller's funeral a-Joggin' 'long the street: 
The slow hearse and the hosses — slow enough, to say the 

least, 
Eer to even tax the patience of the gentleman deceased ! 
The low scrunch of the gravel — and the slow grind of 

the wheels, — 
The low, slow go of ev'ry woe 'at ev'rybody feels ! 
So I ruther like the contrast when I hear the whiplash 

crack 
A quickstep fer the hosses. 
When the 
Hearse 

Comes 
Back ! 

Meet it goin' to'rds the cimet'ry, you'll want to drap yer 

eyes — 
But ef the plumes don't fetch you, it'll ketch you other- 
wise — 
You'll haf to see the caskit, though you'd ort to look 

away 
And 'conomize and save yer sighs fer any other day ! 

121 



WHEN" THE HEARSE COMES BACK 

Yer S3rmpathizin' won't wake up the sleeper from his 

rest — 
Yer tears won't thaw them hands o' his 'at's froze acrost 

his breast ! 
And this is why — when airth and sky's a-gittin' blurred 

and black 
I like the flash and hurry 
When the 
Hearse 

Comes 
Back ! 

It's not 'cause I don't 'predate it ain't no time f er jokes, 
Ner 'cause I' got no common human feelin' fer the 

folks ; — 
I've went to funerals myse'f, and tuk on some, perhaps — 
Fer my heart's 'bout as mal'able as any other chap's, — 
I've buried father, mother — ^but I'll haf to jes' git you 
To '^excuse me,'* as the feller says. — The p'int I'm driv- 

in' to 
Is, simply, when we're plum broke down and all knocked 

out o' whack. 
It he'ps to shape us up, like. 
When the 
Hearse 
Comes 
Back! 
122 



WHEN THE HEARSE COMES BACK 

The idy ! wadin' round here over shoe-mouth deep in woe, 
When they^s a graded ^pike o' joy and sunshine, don't 

you know ! 
When evening strikes the pastur', cows'll pull out fer the 

hars 
And skittish-like from out the night'll prance the happy 

stars : 
And so when my time comes to die, and Fve got ary 

friend 
'At wants expressed my last request — I'll, mebby, rick- 

ommend 
To drive slow, ef they haf to, goin' 'long the oufard 

track. 
But I'll smile and say, "You speed 'em 
When the 
Hearse 
Comes 

Back!" 



123 



OUE OLD FEIEIs^D NEVERFAIL 

it's good to ketch a relative 'at's richer and don't run 
When you holler out to hold up, and^ll joke and have his 

fun; 

It's good to hear a man called bad and then find out he's 
not, 

Er strike some chap they call lukewarm 'at's really red- 
hot; 

It's good to know the Devil's painted jes' a leetle black, 

And it's good to have most anybody pat you on the 
back ; — 

But jes' the best thing in the world's our old friend 
Neverfail, 

When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his 
tail! 

1 like to strike the man I owe the same time I can pay, 
And take back things I've borried, and su'prise folks 

thataway ; 
I like to find out that the man I voted f er last fall. 
That didn't git elected, was a scoundrel after all ; 

124 



OUR OLD FRIEND NEVERFAIL 

I like the man that likes the pore and he'ps 'em when he 

can; 
I like to meet a ragged tramp 'at's still a gentleman ; 
But most I like — with you, my boy — our old friend 

Neverfail, 
When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his 

tail! 



125 



DAN" O'SULLIYAF 

Dan O'Sullivan: It's your 
Lips have kissed "The Blarney/' sure ! — • 
To be trillin' praise av me, 
Dhrippin' shwate wid poethry! — 
Not that I'd not have ye sing — 
Don't lave off for anything — 
Jusht be aisy whilst the fit 
Av me head shwells up to it ! 

Dade and thrue, I'm not the man, 
Whilst yer singin', loike 3^e can, 
To cry shtop because ye've bleslit 
My songs more than all the resht: — 
I'll not be the b'y to ax 
Any shtar to wane or wax, 
Or ax any clock that's woun', 
To run up inshtid av down! 

Whist yez ! Dan O'Sullivan !— 

Him that made the Irishman 

Mixt the birds in wid the dough. 

And the dew and mistletoe 

Wid the whusky in the quare 

Muggs av us — and here we air, 

Three parts right, and three parts wrong, 

Shpiked wid beauty, wit, and song! 

126 



JOHN" BOYLE O'REILLY 

SEPULTURE — BOSTON, AUGUST 13, 1890 

Dead? this peerless man of men — 
Patriot, Poet, Citizen! — 

Dead ? and ye weep where he lies 
Mute, with folded eyes ! 

Courage ! All his tears are done ; 
Mark him, dauntless, face the sun ! 
He hath led you. — Still, as true. 
He is leading you. 

Eolded eyes and folded hands 
Typify divine commands 
He is hearkening to, intent 
Beyond wonderment. 

'Tis promotion that has come 
Thus upon him. Stricken dumb 
Be your moanings dolorous ! 
God knows what He does. 

127 



JOHN BOYLE o'REILLY 

Bather as your chief, aspire! — 
Else and seize his toppling lyre, 

And sing Freedom, Home, and Love, 
And the rights thereof ! 

Ere in selfish grief ye sink. 
Come ! catch rapturous breath and think- 
Think what sweep of wing hath he, 
Loosed in endless liberty. 



128 



MEREDITH KICHOLSON 

Keats, and Kirk White, David Gray and the rest of you 

Heavened and blest of you young singers gone, — 
Slender in sooth though the theme unexpressed of you, 

Leave us this like of you yet to sing on ! 
Let your Muse mother him and your souls brother him, 

Even as now, or in fancy, you do: 
Still let him sing to us ever, and bring to us 

Musical musings of glory and — ^you. 

N'ever a note to do evil or wrong to us — 

Beauty of melody — beauty of words, — 
Sweet and yet strong to us comes his young song to us 

Eippled along to us clear as the bird^s. 
N'o fame elating him falsely, nor sating him — 

Feasting and feting him faint of her joys. 
But singing on where the laurels are waiting him. 

Young yet in art, and his heart yet a boy's. 



129 



GOD'S MEECY 

Behold, one faith endureth still — 
Let factions rail and creeds contend- 

God's mercy was, and is, and will 
Be with us, foe and friend. 



130 



CHEISTMAS GEEETING 

A WORD of Godspeed and good cheer 

To all on earth — or far or near. 

Or friend or foe, or thine or mine — 

In echo of the voice divine. 

Heard when the Star bloomed forth and lit 

The world's face, with God's smile on it. 



131 



TO EUDYARD KIPLING 

To do some worthy deed of charity 

In secret and then have it found out by 
Sheer accident, held gentle Elia — 

That — that was the best thing beneath the sky ! 
Confirmed in part, yet somewhat differing — 

(Grant that his gracious wraith will pardon me 
If impious!) — I think a better thing 

Is : being found out when one strives to be. 

So, Poet and Romancer — old as young, 

And wise as artless — ^masterful as mild, — > 
If there be sweet in any song IWe sung, 

'Twas savored for that palate, my Child ! 
Por thee the lisping of the children all — 

For thee the youtliful voices of old years — 
For thee all chords untamed or musical — 

For thee the laughter, and for thee the tears. 

[And thus, borne to me o'er the seas between 

Thy land and mine, thy Song of certain wing 
Circles above me in the "pure serene'' 

Of our high heaven's vast o'er-welcoming ; 
While, packeted with joy and thankfulness. 

And fair hopes many as the stars that shine. 
And bearing all love's loyal messages. 

Mine own goes homing back to thee and thine. 
132 



THE GUDEWIFE 

My gudewife — she that is tae be — * 
she sail seeme sang-sweete tae me 
As her ain croon tuned wi^ the chiel's 

Or spinnin'-wheel's. 
An^ f aire she'll be, an^ saf t, an' light, 

An' muslin-bright 
As her spick apron, jimpy laced 

The-round her waiste. — 
Yet aye as rosy sail she bloome 

Intil the roome 
(The where alike baith bake an' dine) 

As a full-fine 
Eipe rose, lang rinset wi' tHe raine, 

Sun-kist againe, — 
Sail seate me at her table-spread, 

White as her bread. — 
"Where I, sae kissen her for grace. 

Sail see her face 
Smudged, yet aye sweeter, for the bit 

0' floure on it, 
"Whiles, witless, she sail sip wi' me 
Luve's tapmaist-bubblin' ecstasy. 



133 



TENNYSON 

ENGLAND, OCTOBER 5, 1892 

We of the New World clasp hands with the Old 
In newer fervor and with firmer hold 

And nobler fellowship, — 
Master Singer, with the finger-tip 
Of Death laid thus on thy melodious lip ! 

All ages thou has honored with thine art. 
And ages yet unborn thou wilt be part 

Of all songs pure and true ! 
Thine now the universal homage due 
From Old and New World — ay, and still The New ! 



134 



EOSAMOND C. BAILEY 

Thou brave, good woman ! Loved of every one ; 
Not only that in singing thou didst fill 
Our thirsty hearts with sweetness, trill on trill, 

Even as a wild bird singing in the sun — 

Not only that in all thy carols none 

But held some tincturing of tears to thrill 
Our gentler natures, and to quicken still 

Our human sympathies ; but thou hast won 

Our equal love and reverence because 
That thou wast ever mindful of the poor. 
And thou wast ever faithful to thy friends. 

sjO, loving, serving all, thy best applause 
Th}^ requiem — the vast throng at the door 

Of the old church, with mute prayers and amens. 



135 



MES. BENJAMIN HARRISON 

WASHINGTON, OCTOBER 25, 1892 

Now utter calm and rest ; 
Hands folded o'er the breast 
In peace the placidest. 

All trials past; 
All fever soothed — all pain 
Annulled in heart and brain. 
Never to vex again — 

She sleeps at last. 

She sleeps ; but most dear 
And best beloved of her 
Ye sleep not — nay, nor stir. 

Save but to bow 
The closer each to each, 
With sobs and broken speech, 
That all in vain beseech 

Her answer now. 

136 



MRS. BENJAMIN" HARRISON 

And lo ! we weep with you, 

One grief the wide world through 

Yet with the faith she knew 

We see her still, 
Even as here she stood — 
All that was pure and good 
And sweet in womanhood — 

God's will her will. 



137 



GEOEGE A. CARE 

GKEENFIELD^ JULY 21, 1914 

PLAYMATE of the far-away 

And dear delights of Boyhood's day, 
And friend and comrade trne and tried 
Through length of years of life beside, 

1 bid yon thns a fond farewell 
Too deep for words or tears to tell. 

But though I lose you, nevermore 
To greet you at the open door. 
To grasp your hand or see your smile, 
I shall be thankful all the while 
Because your love and loyalty 
Have made a happier world for me. 

So rest you, Pla}Tnatej in that land 
Still hidden from us by His hand. 
Where you may know again in truth 
All of the glad days of your youth — 
As when in days of endless ease 
We played beneath the apple trees. 
138 



TO ELIZABETH 

OBIT JULY 8, 1893 

isroBLE, true and pure and lovable 
As thine own blessed name, Elizabeth ! — 
Ay, even as its cadence lingereth 
Upon the lips that speak it, so the spell 
Of thy sweet memory shall ever dwell 

As music in our hearts. Smiling at Death 
As on some later guest that tarrieth, 
Too gratefully o'erjoyed to say farewell, 
Thou hast turned from us but a little space — 
"We miss thy presence but a little while, 
Thy voice of sympathy, thy word of cheer. 
The radiant glory of thine eyes and face, 
The glad midsummer morning of thy smile, — 
Eor still we feel and know that thou art here. 



139 



TO ALMOIS" KEEFER 

INSCRIBED IN "tales OF THE OCEAN'' 

This first book that I ever knew 
Was read aloud to me by you ! 
Friend of my boyhood, therefore take 
It back from me, for old times' sake — 
The selfsame "Tales" first read to me. 
Under "the old sweet apple tree," 
Ere I myself could read such great 
Big words, — ^but listening all elate. 
At your interpreting, until 
Brain, heart, and soul were all athrill 
With wonder, awe, and sheer excess 
Of wildest childish happiness. 

So take the book again — forget 
All else, — long years, lost hopes, regret; 
Sighs for the joys we ne'er attain, 
Prayers we have lifted all in vain ; 
Tears for the faces seen no more. 
Once as the roses at the door! 
140 



TO ALMON KEEFER 

Take the enchanted book — And lo, 
On grassy swards of long ago, 
Sprawl out again, beneath the shade 
The breezy old-home orchard made, 
The veriest barefoot boy indeed — 
And I will listen as you read. 



141 



TO— 'THE J. W. E. LITERARY CLUB'' 

"Well, it's enougli to turn his head to have a feller's 

name 
Swiped with a Literary Club ! — But you're the ones to 

blame ! — 
I call the World to witness that I never agged ye to it 
By ever writin' Classic-like — because I couldn't do it: 
I never run to "Hellicon," ner writ about "Per-nassus," 
!N"er ever tried to rack or ride around on old ^^V-gassus" ! 
When 'Tuneful Nines" has cross'd my lines, the ink 'ud 

blot and blur it, 
And pen 'ud jest putt back fer home, and take the short 

way fer it ! 
And so, as I'm a-sayin', — when you name your Literary 
In honor o' this name o' mine, it's railly nessessary — 
Whilse I'm a-thanlcin' you and all — to warn you, ef you 

do it, 
I'll haf to jine the thing myse'f 'fore I can live up to it ! 



U2 



LITTLE MAID-O'-DKEAMS 

Little Maid-o'-Dreams, with your 
Eery eyes so clear and pure 
Gazing, where we fain would see 
Into far futurity, — 
Tell us what you there behold. 
In your visions manifold! 
What is on beyond our sight, 
Biding till the morrow's light. 
Fairer than we see to-day. 
As our dull eyes only may? 

Little Maid-o'-Dreams, with face 
Like as in some woodland place 
Lifts a lily, chaste and white, 
Erom the shadow to the light ; — 
Tell us, by your subtler glance. 
What strange sorcery enchants 
You as now, — ^here, yet afar 
As the realms of moon and star ? — • 
Have you magic lamp and ring. 
And genii for vassaling ? 

143 



LITTLE MAID-0 -DREAMS 

Little Maid-o'-Dreams, confess 
You're divine and nothing less, — 
For with mortal palms, we fear, 
Yet must pet you, dreaming here — 
Yearning, too, to lift the tips 
Of your fingers to our lips; 
Fearful still you may rebel. 
High and heavenly oracle ! 
Thus, though all unmeet our kiss. 
Pardon this ! — and this ! — and this ! 

Little Maid-o'-Dreams, we call 
Truce and favor, knowing all ! — 
All your magic is, in truth. 
Pure foresight and faith of youth — • 
You're a child, yet even so. 
You're a sage, in embryo — 
Prescient poet — artist — great 
As your dreams anticipate. — 
Trusting God and Man, you do 
Just as Heaven inspires you to. 



144 



TO THE BOY WITH A COUNTKY 



DAN WALLINGFORD 

Dan Wallingford, my jo Dan! — 

Though but a child in years, 
Your patriot spirit thrills the land 

And wakens it to cheers, — 
You lift the flag — ^you roll the drums- 

We hear the bugle blow, — 
Till all our hearts are one with yours, 

Dan Wallingford, my jo ! 



145 



CLAUDE MATTHEWS 



GOVERNOR OF INDIANA 



Steadfastly from his childhood's earliest hour — 
From simplest country life to state and power — 
His worth has known advancement, — each new height 
A newer glory in his fellow's sight. 

So yet his happy fate — though mute the breath 
Of thronging multitudes and thundrous cheers, — 
Faith sees him raised still higher, through our tears. 

By this divine promotion of his death. 



146 



TO LESLEY 

Burns sang of bonny Lesley 
As she gaed o'er the border, — 

Gaed like vain Alexander, 
To spread her conquests farther. 

I sing another Lesley, 
Wee girlie, more alluring, 

"Who stays at home, the wise one. 
Her conquests there securing. 

A queen, too, is my Lesley, 

And gracious, though blood-royal, 
My heart her throne, her kingdom, 

And I a subject loyal. 

Long shall you reign, my Lesley, 
My pet, my darling dearie, 

Eor love, oh, little sweetheart, 
Grows never old or weary. 



147 



THE JUDKII^S PAPEES 

FATHER AND SON 

Mr. Judkins' boy came home yesterday with a bottle 
of bugs in his pocket, and as the qniet little fellow sat 
on the back porch in his favorite position, his legs el- 
bowed and flattened out beneath him like a letter '^" 
his genial and eccentric father came suddenly upon him. 

"And what's the blame' boy up to now?" said Mr. 
Judkins, in an assumed tone of querulous displeasure, 
as he bent over the boy from behind and gently tweaked 
his ear. 

"Oh, here, mister !" said the boy, without looking up ; 
"you thist let up on that, will you !" 

"What you got there, I tell you !" continued the smil- 
ing Mr. Judkins, in a still gruffer tone, relinquishing 
the boy's ear, and gazing down upon the fluffy towhead 
with more than ordinary admiration. ^^What you got 
there?" 

"Bugs," said the boy — "you know !" 

"Dead, are they ?" said Mr. Judkins. 

"Some of 'em's dead," said the boy, carefully running 
a needle through the back of a large bumblebee. "All 

148 



THE JUDKINS PAPERS 

these uns is, you kin bet ! You don't think a feller 'ud 
try to string a live bumblebee, I reckon?" 

"Well, no, 'Squire," said Mr. Judkins, airily, address- 
ing the boy by one of the dozen nicknames he had given 
him; "not a live bumblebee — a real stem-winder, of 
course not. But what in the name o' limpin' Lazarus air 
you stringin' 'em f er ?" 

"Got a live snake-feeder," said the boy, ignoring the 
parental inquiry. "See him down there in the bottom, 
'ith all th' other uns on top of him. Thist watch him 
now, an' you kin see him pant. I kin. Yes, an' I got a 
beetle 'at's purt' nigh alive, too — on'y he can't pull in 
his other wings. See 'em?" continued the boy, with 
growing enthusiasm, twirling the big-mouthed bottle 
like a kaleidoscope. "Hate beetles ! 'cause they alius act 
so big, an' make s'much fuss about theirselves, an' don't 
know nothin' neither ! Bet ef I had as many wings as a 
beetle I wouldn't let no boy my size knock the stuflQn' 
out o' me with no bunch o' weeds, like I done him !" 

"Howd'ye know you wouldn't?" said Mr. Judkins, 
austerely, biting his nails and winking archly to him- 
self. 

"W'y, I know I wouldn't," said the boy, "'cause I'd 
keep up in the air where I could fly, an' wouldn't come 
low down ut all — bumpin' around 'mongst them bushes, 
an' buzzin' against things, an' buttin' my brains out 
a-tryin' to git thue fence cracks." 

^^ 'Spect you'd ruther be a snake-feeder, wouldn't you, 
149 



THE JUDKINS PAPERS 

Bud?" said Mr. Judkins suggestively. '^Snake-feeders 
has got about enough wings to suit you, ef you want 
more'n one pair, and ever' day's a picnic with a snake- 
feeder, you know. Nothin' to do but jes' loaf up and 
down the crick, and roost on reeds and cat-tails, er fool 
around a feller's fish-line and light on the cork and bob 
up and down with it till she goes clean under, don't you 
know?" 

"Don't want to be no snake-feeder, neither," said the 
boy, '^ 'cause they gits gobbled up, first thing they know, 
by these 'ere big green bullfrogs ut they can't ever tell 
from the skum till they've lit right in their mouth — and 
then they're goners ! No, sir ;" continued the boy, draw- 
ing an extra quinine-bottle from another pocket, and 
holding it up admiringly before his father's eyes: 
"There's the feller in there ut I'd ruther be than have 
a pony!" 

"W'y, it's a nasty p'izen spider !" exclaimed Mr. Jud- 
kins, pushing back the bottle with affected abhorrence, 
"and he's alive, too!" 

"You bet he's alive !" said the boy, "an' you kin bet 
he'll never come to no harm while I own him !" and as 
the little fellow spoke his face glowed with positive af- 
fection, and the twinkle of his eyes, as he continued, 
seemed wonderfully like his father's own. "Tell you, I 
like spiders ! Spiders is awful fat — all but their head — ■ 
and that's level, you kin bet ! Flies hain't got no busi- 
ness with a spider. Ef a spider ever reaches fer a fly, 

150 



THE JUDKINS PAPERS 

lie's his meat ! The spider, he likes to loaf an' lay around 
in the shade an' wait fer flies an' bugs an' things to 
come a-foolin' round his place. He lays back in the hole 
in the corner of his web, an' waits till somepin' lights 
on it an' nen when he hears 'em buzzin', he thist crawls 
out an' fixes 'em so's they can't buzz, an' he's got the 
truck to do it with ! I bet ef you'd unwind all the web- 
stuff out of thist one little spider not bigger'n a pill, it 
'ud be long enough fer a kite-string! Onc't they wuz 
one in our wood-house, an' a taterbug got stuck in his 
web, an' the spider worked purt' nigh two days 'fore he 
got him so's he couldn't move. Nen he couldn't eat him 
neither — 'cause the/s shells on 'em, you know, an' the 
spider didn't know how to hull him. Ever' time I'd go 
there the spider, he'd be a-wrappin' more stuff around 
th' ole bug, an' stoopin' down like he wuz a-whisperin' 
to him. An' one day I went in ag'in, an' he was a-hang- 
in', alas an' cold in death! An' I poked him with a 
splinter an' his web broke off — ^'spect he'd used it all up 
on the wicked bug — an' it killed him ; an' I buried him 
in a' ink-bottle an' mashed the old bug 'ith a chip !" 

"Yes," said Judkins, in a horrified tone, turning away 
to conceal the real zest and enjoyment his face must 
have betrayed ; "yes, and some day you'll come home 
p'izened, er somepin' ! And I want to say right here, my 
young man, ef ever you do, and it don't kill you, I'll 
lint you within an inch of your life !" And as the ec- 
centric Mr. Judkins whirled around the corner of the 

151 



THE JUDKINS PAPERS 



porch tie heard the boy miirmur in his low, absent- 
minded way, "Yes, you will!" 



Judkins stopped us in front of the post-office yester- 
day to say that that boy of his was "the blamedest boy 
outside o' the annals o' history !" "Talk about this boy- 
naturalist out here at Indianapolis," says Judkins, — 
"w'y, he ain't nowhere to my boy ! The little cuss don't 
do nothin' either only set around and look sleepy, and 
dern him, he gits off more dry things than you could 
print in your paper. Of late he's been a-displayin' a sort 
o' weakness fer Nature, don't you know; and he's alius 
got a bottle o' bugs in his pocket. He come home yes- 
terday evening with a blame' mud-turtle as big as an 
unabridged dictionary, and turned him over in the back 
yard and commenced biffin' away at him with a hammer 
and a cold-chisel. ^W'y, you're a-killin' the turtle,' says 
I. ^Kill nothin' !' says he, 'I'm thist a-takin' the lid off 
so's I can see his clock works.' Hoomh !" says Judkins : 
"He's a good one ! — only," he added, "I wouldn't have 
the hoy think so fer the world!" 

judkins' boy on the mud-tuetle 

The mud-turtle is not a beast of pray, but he dearly 
loves catfish bait. If a mud-turtle gits your big toe in 
his mouth he will hang on till it thunders. Then he will 

15» 



THE JUDKINS PAPERS 

spit it out like he was disgusted. The mud-turtle kin 
swim and keep his chin out of water ef he wants to but 
he don^t care ef he does sink. The turtle kin stay under 
water until his next birthday, an' never crack a smile. 
He kin breathe like a grown person, but he don't haf to, 
on'y when he is on dry land, an' then I guess he thist 
does it to be soshibul. Alius when you see bubbles 
a-comin' up in the swimmin' hole, you kin bet your gal- 
luses they's a mud-turtle a-layin' down there, studyin' 
up some cheap way to git his dinner. Mud-turtles never 
dies, on'y when they make soup out of 'em. They is 
seven kinds of meat in the turtle, but I'd ruther eat thist 
plain burnt liver. 

ON" FROGS 

Frogs is the people's friend, but they can't fly. Onc't 
they wuz tadpoles about as big as lickerish drops, an' 
after while legs growed on 'em. Oh, let us love the frog 
— he looks so sorry. Frogs kin swim better'n little boys, 
and they don't haf to hold their nose when they dive, 
neither. Onc't I had a pet frog; an' the cars run over 
him. It thist squshed him. Bet he never knowed what 
hurt him ! Onc't they wuz a rich lady swallered one — 
when he wuz little, you know ; an' he growed up in her, 
an' it didn't kill him ut all. An' you could hear him 
holler in her bosom. It was a tree-toad; and so ever' 
time he'd go p-r-r-r-r- w'y, nen the grand lady she'd 
know it was goin' to rain, an' make her little boy run 

153 



THE JUDKINS PAPERS 

an' putt the tub under the spout. Wasn't that a b'utiful 
frog ? 

ON PIRUTS 

Piruts is reckless to a fault. They ain't afeard of no- 
body ner nothin'. Ef ever you insult a pirut onc't, he'll 
foller you to the gTave but what he will revenge his 
wrongs. Piruts all looks like pictures of "Buffalo Bill" 
— on'y they don't shave off the whiskers that sticks out 
over the collar of their low-necked shirt. Ever' day is a 
picknick fer the piruts of the high seas. They eat gun- 
powder an' drink blood to make 'em savage, and then 
they kill people all day, an' set up all night an' tell ghost 
stories an' sing songs such as mortal ear would quail to 
listen to. Piruts never comes on shore on'y when they 
run out of tobacker; an' then it's a cold day ef they 
don't land at midnight, an' disguize theirselves an' slip 
up in town like a sleuth houn', so's the Grand Jury can't 
git on to 'em. They don't care fer the police any more 
than us people who d^vells right in their midst. Piruts 
makes big wages an' spends it like a king. "Come easy, 
go easy," is the fatal watchword of them whose deeds is 
Deth. Onc't they wuz a pirut turned out of the house 
an' home by his cruel parents when he wuz but a kid, 
an' so he always went by that name. He was thrust 
adrift without a nickel, an' sailed fer distant shores to 
hide his shame fer those he loved. In the dead of night 
he stol'd a new suit of the captain's clothes. An' when 
he growed up big enough to fit 'em, he gaily dressed his- 

154 



THE JUDKINS PAPERS 

sef and went up an' paced the quarter-deck in deep 
thought. He had not fergot how the captain onc't had 
lashed him to the jib-boom-poop an' whipped him. That 
stung his proud spirit even then; an' so the first thing 
he done was to slip up behind the cruel officer an' push 
him over-board. Then the ship wuz his fer better er f er 
worse. An' so he took command, an' hung high upon 
the beetling mast the pirut flag. Then he took the Bible 
his old mother give him, an' tied a darnic round it an' 
sunk it in the sand with a mocking laugh. Then it wuz 
that he wuz ready fer the pirut's wild seafaring life. 
He worked the business fer all they wuz in it fer many 
years, but wuz run in ut last. An', standin' on the gal- 
lus-tree, he sung a song which wuz all wrote off by his- 
sef. An' then they knocked the trap on him. An' thus 
the brave man died and never made a kick. In life he 
wuz alius careful with his means, an' saved up vast 
welth, which he dug holes and buried, an' died. with the 
secret locked in his bosom to this day. 

ON" HACKMENS 

Hackmens has the softest thing in the bizness. They 
hain't got nothin' to do but look hump-shouldered an' 
chaw tobacker an' wait. Hackmens all looks like de- 
tectives, an' keeps still, an' never even spits when you 
walk past 'em. An' they're alius cold. A hackman that 
stands high in the p'fession kin wear a overcoat in dog- 
days an' then look chilly an' like his folks wuz all dead 

155 



THE JUDKINS PAPERS 

but the old man, an' lie wuz a drunkard. Ef a hackman 
would on'y be a blind fiddler he'd take in more money 
than a fair-ground. Hackmens never gives nothin' away. 
You kin trust a hackman when you can't trust your own 
mother. Some people thinks when they hire a hack to 
take 'em some place that the hackman has got some 
grudge ag'in' 'em — ^but he hain't — he's alius that way. 
He loves you but he knows his place, and smothers his 
real feelings. In life's giddy scenes hackmens all wears 
a mask; but down deep in their heart you kin bet they 
are yourn till deth. Some hackmens look like they wuz 
stuck up, but they hain't — it's only 'cause they got on 
so much clothes. Onc't a hackman wuz stabbed by a 
friend of his in the same bizness, an' when the doctors 
wuz seein' how bad he wuz karved up, they found he had 
on five shurts. They said that wuz all that saved his 
life. They said ef he'd on'y had on four shurts, he'd 'a' 
been a ded man. An' the hackman hissef, when he got 
well, used to brag it wuz the closetest call he ever had, 
an' laid fer the other hackman, an' hit him with a car 
couplin' an' killed him, an' come mighty nigh goin' to 
the penitenchary fer it. Influenshal friends wuz all that 
saved him that time. No five shurts would 'a' done it. 
The mayor said that when he let him off, an' brought 
do^vn the house, an' made hissef a strong man fer an- 
other term. Some mayors is purty slick, but a humble 
hackman may sometimes turn out to be thist as smooth. 
The on'y thing w'y a hackman don't show up no better 

156 



THE JUDKINS PAPERS 

is 'cause he loses so much sleep. That's why he alius 
looks like he had the headache, an' didn't care ef he did. 
Onc't a hackman wuz waitin' in front of a hotel one 
morning an' wuz sort o' dozin' like, an' fell off his seat. 
An' they run an' picked him up, an' he wuz unconshus, 
an' they worked with him till 'way long in the after- 
noon 'fore they found out he wuz thist asleep; an' he 
cussed fearful cause they waked him up, an' wondered 
why people couldn't never tend to their own bizness like 
he did. 

ON" DUDES 

Ever'body is alius a-givin' it to Dudes. Newspapers 
makes fun of 'em, an' artists makes pictures of 'em ; an' 
the on'y ones in the wide world that stuck on Dudes is 
me an' the Dudes theirse'f, an' we love an' cherish 'em 
with all a parent's fond regards. An' nobody knows 
much about Dudes neither, 'cause they hain't been broke 
out long enough yit to tell thist what the disease is. 
Some say it's softinning of the brains, an' others claim 
it can't be that, on the groun's they hain't got material 
fer the softinning to work on, &c., &c., till even "Sien- 
tests is puzzled," as the good book says. An' ef I wuz 
a-goin' to say what ails Dudes I'd have to give it up, er 
pernounce it a' aggervated case of Tyfoid blues, which 
is my 'onnest convictions. That's what makes me kind o' 
stand in with 'em — same as ef they wuz the under-dog. 
I am willing to aknolege that Dudes has their weakness, 

157 



THE JUDKINS PAPERS 

but SO has ever'thing. Even Oscar Wild, ef putt to the 
test ; an' I alius feel sorry f er George ^Yasllington 'cause 
he died 'fore he got to see Oscar \Yild. An' then another 
reason w'y you oughten't to jump on to Dudes is, they 
don't know what's the matter with 'em any more than 
us folks in whom they come in daily contack. Dudes 
all walks an' looks in the face like they wuz on their 
way to fill an engagement with a revolvin' lady wax- 
figger in some milliner-winder, an' had fergot the num- 
ber of her place of bizness. Some folks is mean enough 
to bitterly a'sert that Dudes is strained in their manner 
an' fools from choice ; but they ain't. It's a gift — Dudes 
is Geenuses — that's what Dudes is ! 

ox RED HAIR 

Onc't a pore boy wuz red-hedded, an' got mad at the 
other boys when they'd throw it up to him. An' when 
they'd laugh at his red hed, an' ast him fer a light, er 
wuzn't he afeard he'd singe his cap, an' orto' wear a tin 
hat, er pertend to warm their hands by him, — ^w'y, some- 
times the red-hedded. bo/d git purty hot indeed; an' 
onc't he told another boy that wuz a-bafflin' him about 
his red hair that ef he wuz him he'd git a fine comb an' 
go to canvassin' his own hed, and then he'd be liabul to 
sceer up a more livelier subjeck to talk about than red 
hair. An' then the other boy says, "You're a liar" an' 
that got the red-hedded boy into more trouble; fer the 
old man whipped him shameful' fer breakin' up soil with 

158 



THE JUDKINS PAPERS 

the other boy. An' this here red-hedded boy had freckles, 
too. An' warts. An' nobody ortn't to 'a' jumpt on to 
him fer that. Ef anybody wnz a red-hedded boy they'd 
have also warts an' freckles — an' thist red-hair's bad 
enough. Onc't another boy told him ef he wuz him he bet 
he could make a big day look sick some night. An' when 
the red-hedded boy says ^'How?" w'y, the other boy he 
says "Easy enough. I'd thist march around bare-hedded 
in the torch-light p'cession." — "Yes, you would," says 
the red-hedded boy, an' pasted him one with a shinny 
club, an' got dispelled from school 'cause he wuz so high- 
tempered an' impulsiv. Ef I wuz the red-hedded boy 
I'd be a pirut; but he alius said he wuz goin' to be a 
baker. 

THE CEOSS-ETED GIRL 

"You don't want to never tamper with a cross-eyed 
girl," said Mr. Judkins, "and I'll tell you w'y : They've 
natur'Uy got a better focus on things than a man would 
ever guess — studyin' their eyes, you understand. A man 
may think he's a-foolin' a cross-eyed girl simply because 
she's apparently got her eyes tangled on other topics as 
he's a-talkin' to her, but at the same time that girl may 
be a-lookin' down the windin' stairway of the cellar of 
his soul with one eye, and a-winkin' in a whisper to her 
own soul with the other, and her unconscious victim jes' 
a-takin' it fer granted that nothin' is the matter with 
the girl, only jes' cross-eyes ! You see I've studied 'em," 
continued Judkins, "and I'm on to one fact dead sure — 

159 



THE JUDKIITS PAPERS 

and that is, their natures is as deceivin^ as their eyes is ! 
Knowed one onc't that had her eyes mixed up thataway 
— sensitive little thing she was, and always referrin' to 
her 'misfortune/ as she called it, and eternally threat- 
ening to have some surgeon straighten ^em out like other 
folks' — and, sir, that girl so worked on my feelin's, and 
took such underholts on my sympathies that, blame me, 
before I knowed it I confessed to her that ef it hadn't 
'a' been fer her defective eyes (I made it 'defective') I 
never would have thought of lovin' her, and, further- 
more ef ever she did have ^em changed back normal, 
don't you understand, she might consider our engage- 
ment at an end — I did, honest. And that girl was so 
absolute cross-eyed it warped her ears, and she used to 
amuse herself by watchin' 'em curl up as I'd be a-talkin' 
to her, and that maddened me, 'cause I'm natur'lly of 
a jealous disposition, you know, and so, at last, I jes' 
casually hinted that ef she was really a-goin' to git them 
eyes carpentered up, w'y she'd better git at it : and that 
ended it. 

"And then the blame' girl turned right around and 
married a fellow that had a better pair of eyes than mine 
this minute ! Then I struck another cross-eyed girl — 
not really a legitimate case, 'cause, in reality, she only 
had one off eye — the right eye, ef I don't disremember — 
the other one was as square as a gouge. And that girl 
was, ef any difference, a more confusin' case than the 
other, and besides all that, she had some money in her 

160 



THE JUDKINS PAPERS 

own right, and warn't a-throwin' off no big discount on 
one game eye. But I finally got her interested, and I 
reckon something serious might 'a' come of it — but, you 
see, her father was dead, and her stepmother sort o' shet 
down on my comin' to the house; besides that, she had 
three grown uncles, and you know how uncles is. I 
didn't want to marry no family, of course, and so I slid 
out of the scheme, and tackled a poor girl that clerked 
in a post-office. Her eyes was bad ! I never did git the 
hang of them eyes of hern. She had purty hair, and a 
complexion, I used to tell her, which outrivalled the 
rose. But them eyes, you know! I didn't really appre- 
ciate how bad they was crossed, at first. You see, it took 
time. Got her to give me her picture, and I used to 
cipher on that, but finally worked her off on a young 
friend of mine who wanted to marry intellect — give her 
a good send-off to him — and she was smart — only them 
eyes, you know ! Why, that girl could read a postal card, 
both sides at once, and smile at a personal friend 
through the office window at the same time !" 

HOMESICKNESS 

There was a more than ordinary earnestness in the 
tone of Mr. Judkins as he said : "Eeferrin' to this thing 
of bein' homesick, I want to say right here that of all 
diseases, afflictions er complaints, this thing of bein' 
homesick takes the cookies ! A man may think when he's 

161 



THE JUDKINS PAPERS 

got a' aggrivated case of janders, er white-swellin', say, 
er bone-erysipelas, that he's to be looked up to as bein' 
purty well fixed in this vale of trouble and unrest, but 
I want to tell you, when I want my sorrow blood-raw, 
don't you understand, you may give me homesickness — ' 
straight goods, you know — and I'll git more clean, le- 
gitimate agony out of that than you can out of either of 
the other attractions — ^yes, er even ef you'd ring in the 
full combination on me ! You see, there's no way of 
treatin' homesickness only one — and that is to git back 
home — ^but as that's a remedy you can't git at no drug 
store, at so much per box — and ef you could, fer in- 
stance, and only had enough ready money anyhow to 
cover half the cost of a full box — and nothin' but a full 
box ever reached the case — ^w^y, it follers that your con- 
dition still remains critical. And homesickness don't 
show no favors. It's jes' as liable to strike you as me. 
High er low, er rich er poor, all comes under her jurish- 
diction, and whenever she once reaches fer a citizen, you 
can jes' bet she gits there Eli, ever' time! 

"She don't confine herse'f to youth, ner make no spe- 
cialty of little children either, but she stalks abroad like 
a census-taker, and is as conscientious. She visits the 
city girl clean up to Maxinkuckee, and makes her won- 
der how things really is back home without her. And 
then she haunts her dreams, and wakes her up at all 
hours of the night, and sings old songs over fer her, and 
talks to her in low thrillin' tones of a young man whose 

162 



THE JUDKINS PAPERS 

salary ain't near big enough f er two ; and then she leaves 
her photograph with her and comes away, and makes 
it lively fer the boys on the train, the conductor, the 
brakeman and the engineer. She even nests out the 
travellin' man, and yanks him out of his reclinin' chair, 
and walks him up and down the car, and runs him clean 
out of cigars and finecut, and smiles to hear him swear. 
Then she gits off at little country stations and touches 
up the night operator, who grumbles at his boy com- 
panion, and wishes to dernation 'six' was in, so's he 
could 'pound his ear.' 

"And I'll never forgit," continued Mr. Judkins, ''the 
last case of homesickness I had, and the cure I took fer 
it. 'Tain't been more'n a week ago neither. You see my 
old home is a'most too many laps from this base to make 
it very often, and in consequence I hadn't been there fer 
five years and better, till this last trip, when I jes' suc- 
cumbed to the pressure, and th'owed up my hands and 
went. Seemed like I'd 'a' died if I hadn't. And it was 
glorious to rack around the old town again — things 
lookin' jes' the same, mighty nigh, as they was when I 
was a boy, don't you know. Run acrost an old school- 
mate, too, and tuck supper at his happy little home, 
and then we got us a good nickel cigar, and walked and 
walked, and talked and talked! Tuck me all around, 
you understand, in the meller twilight — ^till, the first 
thing you know, there stood the old schoolhouse where 
me and him first learnt to chew tobacco, and all that! 

163 



THE JUDKINS PAPERS 

Well, sir ! you hain't got no idea of the f eelin's that was 
mine! W'y, I felt like I could th'ow my arms around 
the dear old buildin' and squeeze it till the cupolo would 
jes' pop out of the top of the roof like the core out of a 
b'ile ! And I think if they ever was a' epoch in my life 
when I could 'a' tackled poetry without no compunc- 
tions, as the feller says, w'y, then was the time — shore !" 



164 



TO THE QUIET OBSEKVEE 

ERASMUS WILSOK, AFTER HIS LONG SILENCE 

Dear old friend of us all in need 
Who know the worth of a friend indeed. 
How rejoiced are we all to learn 
Of your glad return. 

We who have missed your voice so long — 
Even as March might miss the song 
Of the sugar-hird in the maples when 
They're tapped again. 

Even as the memory of these 
Blended sweets, — the sap of the trees 

And the song of the birds, and the old camp too, 
We think of you. 

Hail to you, then, with welcomes deep 
As grateful hearts may laugh or weep ! — 
You give us not only the bird that sings, 
But all good things. 



165 



AMEEICA'S THANKSGIVING 

1900 

Father all bountiful, in mercy bear 
With this our universal voice of prayer — 

The voice that needs must be 

Upraised in thanks to Thee, 
Father, from Thy Children everywhere. 

A multitudinous voice, wherein we fain 
Wouldst have Thee hear no lightest sob of pain — 

ISTo murmur of distress, 

ISTor moan of loneliness, 
ISTor drip of tears, though soft as summer rain. 

And, Father, give us first to comprehend, 

No ill can come from Thee ; lean Thou and lend 

Us clearer sight to see 

Our boundless debt to Thee, 
Since all thy deeds are blessings, in the end. 

And let us feel and know that, being Thine, 

We are inheritors of hearts divine. 

And hands endowed with skill. 
And strength to work Thy will. 

And fashion to fulfilment Thy design. 
166 



America's thanksgiving 

So, let us thank Thee, with all self aside, 
Nor any lingering taint of mortal pride; 

As here to Thee we dare 

Uplift our faltering prayer. 
Lend it some fervor of the glorified. 

We thank Thee that our land is loved of Thee 
The blessed home of thrift and industry. 

With ever-open door 

Of welcome to the poor — 
Thy shielding hand o'er all abidingly. 

Even thus we thank Thee for the wrong that grew 
Into a right that heroes battled to. 

With brothers long estranged. 

Once more as brothers ranged 
Beneath the red and white and starry blue. 

Ay, thanks— though tremulous the thanks expressed— 
Thanks for the battle at its worst, and best — 

For all the clanging fray 

Whose discord dies away 
Into a pastoral song of peace and rest. 



167 



WILLIAM PINKNEY FISHBACK 

Sat first he loved tlie dear home-hearts, and then 

He loved his honest fellow citizen — 

He loved and honored him, in any post 

Of duty where he served mankind the most. 

All that he asked of him in humblest need 
Was bnt to find him striving to succeed; 
All that he asked of him in highest place 
Was justice to the lowliest of his race. 

When he found these conditions, proved and tried, 
He owned he marvelled, but was satisfied — 
Eelaxed in vigilance enough to smile 
And, with his own wit, flay himself a while. 

Often he liked real anger — as, perchance, 

The summer skies like storm-clouds and the glance 

Of lightning — for the clearer, purer blue 

Of heaven, and the greener old earth, too. 

All easy things to do he did with care. 
Knowing the very common danger there ; 
In noblest conquest of supreme debate 
The facts are simple as the victory great. 
168 



WILLIAM PINKNEY FISHBACK 



That which had been a task to hardiest minds 
To him was as a pleasure, such as finds 
Tlie captive-truant, doomed to read throughout 
The one lone book he really cares about. 

Study revived him: Howsoever dim 
And deep the problem, 'twas a joy to him 
To solve it wholly; and he seemed as one 
Eefreshed and rested as the work was done. 

And he had gathered, from all wealth of lore 
That time has written, such a treasure store, 
His mind held opulence — his speech the rare 
Eair grace of sharing all his riches there — 

Sharing with all, but with the greatest zest 
Sharing with those who seemed the neediest: 
The young he ever favored; and through these 
Shall he live longest in men's memories. 



169 



JOHN CLARK RIDPATH 

To the lorn ones who loved him first and best. 
And knew his dear love at its tenderest, 
We seem akin — we simplest friends who knew 
His fellowship, of heart and spirit too : 

We who have known the happy smnmertide 
Of his ingenuous nature, glorified 
With the inspiring smile that ever lit 
The earnest face and kindly strength of it: 

His presence, all-commanding, as his thought 
Into unconscious eloquence was wrought, 
Until the utterance became a spell 
That awed us as a spoken miracle. 

Learning, to him, was native — was, in truth, 
The earliest playmate of his lisping youth, 
Likewise, throughout a life of toil and stress. 
It was as laughter, health and happiness: 

And so he played with it — joyed at its call — 
Ran rioting with it, forgetting all 
Delights of childhood, and of age and fame, — 
A devotee of learning, still the same ! 
170 



JOHN CLARK RIDPATH 

In fancy, even now we catch the glance 
Of the rapt eye and radiant countenance, 
As when his discourse, like a woodland stream, 
Plowed musically on from theme to theme : 

The skies, the stars, the mountains, and the sea. 
He worshipped as their high divinity — ■ 
Nor did his reverent spirit find one thing 
On earth too lowly for his worshipping. 

The weed, the rose, the wildwood or the plain. 
The teeming harvest, or the blighted grain — 
All — all were fashioned beautiful and good, 
As the soul saw and senses understood. 

Thus broadly based, his spacious faith and love 
Enfolded all below as all above — 
Nay, ev'n if overmuch he loved mankind. 
He gave his love's vast largess as designed. 

Therefore, in fondest, faithful service, he 
Wrought ever bravely for humanity — 
Stood, first of heroes for the Eight allied — 
Foes, even, grieving, when (for them) he died. 

This was the man we loved — are loving yet. 
And still shall love while longing eyes are wet 
With selfish tears that well were brushed away 
Eemembering his smile of yesterday. — 
171 



JOHN CLAEK KIDPATH 



For, even as we knew him, smiling still. 
Somewhere be3^ond all earthly ache or ill, 
He waits with the old welcome — just as when 
We met him smiling, we shall meet again. 



172 



NEW YEAE'S NUESEEY JINGLE 

Of all the rhymes of all the climes 
Of where and when and how. 

We best and most can boost and boast 
The Golden Age of NOW! 



173 



TO THE MOTHER 

The mother-hands no further toil may know; 

The mother-eyes smile not on you and me ; 
The mother-heart is stilled, alas ! — But 

The mother-love abides eternally. 



174 



TO MY SISTER 

A BELATED OFFERING FOR HER BIRTHDAY 

These books you find three weeks behind 

Your honored anniversary 
Make me, I fear, to here appear 

Mayhap a trifle cursory. — 
Yet while the Muse must thus refuse 

The chords that fall caressfully, 
She seems to stir the publisher 

And dealer quite successfully. 

As to our hirthdays — let 'em run 

Until they whir and whiz ! 
Eead Robert Louis Stevenson, 

And hum these lines of his: — 
"The eternal dawn, beyond a doubt. 

Shall break on hill and plain 
And put all stars and candles out 

Ere we be young again." 



175 



A MOTTO 

The Brightest Star's the modest est. 
And more'ii likely writes 

His motto like the lightnin'-bug's— 
Accordin' To His Lights. 



176 



TO A POET ON HIS MAREIAGE 



MADISON CAWEIN" 

Ever and ever, on and on, 

From winter dusk to April dawn. 

This old enchanted world we range 

Erom night to light — ^f rom change to change- 

Or path of burs or lily-bells. 

We walk a world of miracles. 

The morning evermore must be 
A newer, purer mystery — 
The dewy grasses, or the bloom 
Of orchards, or the wood's perfume 
Of wild sweet-williams, or the wet 
Blent scent of loam and violet. 



How wondrous all the ways we fare 
What marvels wait us, unaware ! . . , 
But yesterday, with eyes ablur 
And heart that held no hope of Her, 
You paced the lone path, but the true 
That led to where she waited you. 



177 



AET AND POETEY 

TO HOMER C. DAVENPORT 

*^ESs/^ he says, and sort o' grins, 
"Art and Poetry is twins. 
'F I could draw as you have drew. 
Like to jes^ swap pens with you." 



178 



HEE SMILE OF CHEEE A:^B VOICE OF SONG 

ANNA HARRIS RANDALL 

Spring fails, in all its bravery of brilliant gold and 

green, — 
The sun, the grass, the leafing tree, and all the dazzling 
scene 
Of dewy morning — orchard blooms. 
And woodland blossoms and perfumes 
With bird-songs sown between. 

Yea, since slie smiles not any more, so every flowery 

thing 
Fades, and the birds seem brooding o'er her silence as 
they sing — 
Her smile of cheer and voice of song 
Seemed so divinely to belong 
To ever-joyous Spring! 

Nay, still she smiles. — Our eyes are blurred and see not 

through our tears: 
And still her rapturous voice is heard, though not of 
mortal ears: — 
ISTow ever doth she smile and sing 
"Where Heaven's unending clime of Spring 
Eeclaims those gifts of hers. 
179 



OLD INDIANY 



FRAGMENT 



INTENDED FOR A DINNER OF THE INDIANA SOCIETY 
OF CHICAGO 

Old Indiany, 'course we know 
Is first, and best, and most, also, 
Of all the States' whole f ortj^-f onr : — 
She's first in ever'thing, that's shore ! — 
And hest in ever' way as yet 
Made known to man ; and you kin bet 
She's most, because she won't confess 
She ever was, or will be, less! 
And yet, f er all her proud array 
Of sons, how many gits away ! — 
ISTo doubt about her bein' great 
But, fellers, she's a leaky State! 
And them that boasts the most about 
Her, them's the ones that's dribbled out. 
Law ! jes' to think of all you boys 
'Way over here in Illinoise 
A-celebratin', like ye air, 
Old Indiany, 'way back there 
180 



OLD INDIANY 

In the dark ages, so to speak, 
A-prayin' for ye once a week 
And wonderin' what's a-keepin' you 
From comin', like you ort to do. 
You're all a-lookin' well, and like 
You wasn't ^^sidin' up the pike," 
As the tramp-shoemaker said 
When "he sacked the boss and shed 
The blame town, to hunt fer one 
"Where they didn't work fer fun!" 
Lookin' extry well, I'd say. 
Your old home so fur away. — 
Maybe, though, like the old jour.. 
Pun hain't all yer workin' fer. 
So you've found a job that pays 
Better than in them old days 
You was on The Weekly Press, 
Heppin' run things, more er less; 
Er a-learnin' telegraph 
Operatin', with a half 
Notion of the tinner's trade, 
Er the dusty man's that laid 
Out designs on marble and 
Hacked out little lambs by hand. 
And chewed fine-cut as he wrought, 
"Shapin' from his bitter thought" 
Some squshed mutterings to say, — 
'*Yes, hard work, and porer pay !" 
181 



OLD INDIANY 

Er you'd kind o' thought the far- 
Gazin' kuss that owned a car 
And took pictures in it, had 
Jes' the snap you wanted — ^bad 1 
And you even wondered why 
He kep' foolin' with his sky- 
Light the same on shiny days 
As when rainin'. ('T leaked always.) 
Wondered what strange things was hid 
In there when he shet the door 
And smelt like a burnt drug store 
Next some orchard-trees, i swan! 
With whole roasted apples on ! 
That's why Ade is, here of late, 
Buyin' in the dear old State, — 
So's to cut it up in plots 
Of both town and country lots. 



182 



ABE MARTIN' 

Abe Martin! — dad-burn his old picture! 
P'tends he^s a Brown County fixture — 
A kind of a comical mixture 

Of hoss-sense and no sense at all ! 
His mouth, like his pipe, ^s alius goin', 
And his thoughts, like his whiskers, is flowin'. 
And what he don^t know ain't wuth knowin' — 

From Genesis clean to baseball ! 

The artist. Kin Hubbard, 's so keerless 
He draws Abe most eyeless and earless. 
But he's never yet pictured him cheerless 

Er with fun 'at he tries to conceal, — • 
Whuther onto the fence er clean over 
A-rootin' up ragweed er clover, 
Skeert stijff at some "Eambler" er "Eover'^ 

Er newfangled automo&eeZ/ 

It's a purty steep climate old Brown's in; 
And the rains there his ducks nearly drowns in 
The old man hisse'f wades his rounds in 
As ca'm and serene, mighty nigh 
183 



ABE MARTIN 

As the old handsaw-liawg, er the mottled 
Milch cow, er the old rooster wattled 
Like the mumps had him 'most so well throttled 
That it was a pleasure to die. 

But best of 'em all's the fool-breaks 'at 
Abe don't see at all, and yit makes 'at 
Both me and you lays back and shakes at 

His comic, miraculous cracks 
Which makes him — clean back of the power 
Of genius itse'f in its flower — 
This Notable Man of the Hour, 

Abe Martin, The Joker on Facts. 



184 



0. HENEY 



0. Henry, Af rite-chef of all delight! — 

Of all delectables conglomerate 

That stay the starved brain and rejuvenate 
The mental man. Th' esthetic appetite — 
So long anhungered that its "in'ards" fight 

And growl gutwise, — its pangs thou dost abate 

And all so amiably alleviate, 
Joy pats its belly as a hobo might 
Who haply hath attained a cherry pie 

With no burnt bottom in it, ner no seeds — 
Nothin^ but crispest crust, and thickness fit, 
And squshin'-juicy, and jes' mighty nigh 

Too dratted drippin'-sweet fer human needs. 
But fer the sosh of milk that goes vrith it. 



1S5 



"MONA MACHREE" 

"Mona Machree, Fm the wanderin* crature now, 

Over the sea; 
Slave of no lass, but a lover of Nature now. 

Careless and free" 

— T. A. Daly. 

MoNA Macheee ! och, the sootherin' flow of it, 

Soft as the sea, 
Yet, in-under the mild, moves the wild undertow of it 

Tuggin^ at me. 
Until both the head and the heart o' me's iightin^ 
For breath, nigh a death all so grandly invitin' 
That — ^barrin' your own livin' yet— I'd delight in, 
Drowned in the deeps of this billowy song to you 
Sung by a lover your beauty has banned, 
Not alone from your love but his dear native land. 
Whilst the kiss of his lips, and touch of his hand. 
And his song — all belong to you, 
Mona Machree! 



186 



WILLIAM McKINLEY 

CANTON^ OHIO^ SEPTEMBER 30, 1907 

He said : "It is God's way : 

His will, not ours be done/' 
And o'er our land a shadow lay 

That darkened all the sun. 
The voice of jubilee 

That gladdened all the air. 
Fell sudden to a quavering key 

Of suppliance and prayer. 

He was our chief — our guide — « 

Sprung of our common Earth, 
From youth's long struggle proved and tried 

To manhood's highest worth : 
Through toil, he knew all needs 

Of all his toiling kind — 
The favored striver who succeeds—^ 

The one who falls behind. 

The boy's young faith he still 
Eetained through years mature—^ 

The faith to labor, hand and will, 
Nor doubt the harvest sure — 
187 



WILLIAM MCKINLEY 

The harvest of man's love — 

A nation's joy that swells 
To heights of Song, or deeps whereof 

But sacred silence tells. 

To him his Country seemed 

Even as a Mother, where 
He rested — slept ; and once he dreamed — 

As on her bosom there — 
And thrilled to hear, within 

That dream of her, the call 
Of bugles and the clang and din 

Of war. . . . And o'er it all 

His rapt eyes caught the bright 

Old Banner, winging wild 
And beck'ning him, as to the fight ... 

When — even as a child — 
He wakened — And the dream 

Was real ! And he leapt 
As led the proud Flag through a gleam 

Of tears the Mother wept. 

His was a tender hand — 

Even as a woman's is — 
And yet as fijxed, in Right's command. 

As this bronze hand of his: 
188 



WILLIAM MCKINLEY 

This was the Soldier brave — 
This was the Victor fair — 

This is the Hero Heaven gave 
To glory here — and There. 



189 



BENJAMIN HAREISON 

ON THE UNVEILING OF HIS MONUMENT AT INDIANAPOLIS 
OCTOBER 27, 1908 

As tangible a form in History 

The Spirit of this man stands forth as here 

He towers in deathless sculpture, high and clear 

Against the bright sky of his destiny. 

Sprung of our oldest, noblest ancestry. 
His pride of birth, as lofty as sincere. 
Held kith and kin, as Country, ever dear — 

Such was his sacred faith in you and me. 

Thus, natively, from youth his work was one 
Unselfish service in behalf of all — 

Home, friends, and sharers of his toil and stress ; 

Ay, loving all men and despising none. 
And swift to answer every righteous call. 
His life was one long deed of worthiness. 

The voice of Duty's faintest whisper found 
Him as alert as at her battle-cry — 
When awful War's battalions thundered by. 
High o'er the havoc still he heard the sound 
Of mothers' prayers and pleadings all around; 
190 



BENJAMIN HARRISON 

And ever the despairing sob and sigh 
Of stricken wives and orphan children's cry 
Made all our Land thrice consecrated ground. 
So rang his "Forward !" and so swept his sword — 
On ! — on ! — till from the fire-and-cloud once more 
Our proud Flag lifted in the glad sunlight 
As though the very Ensign of the Lord 
Unfurled in token that the strife was o'er, 
And victory — as ever — with the right. 



191 



LEE 0. HAEEIS 

CHRISTMAS DAY — 190^ 

SAY not he is dead, 

The friend we honored so ; 
Lift up a grateful voice instead 

And say : He lives, we know — 
We know it by the light 

Of his enduring love 
Of honor, valor, truth, and right. 

And man, and God above. 

Remember how he drew 

The child-heart to his own. 
And taught the parable anew. 

And reaped as he had sown; 
Eemember with what cheer 

He filled the little lives. 
And stayed the sob and dried the tear 

With mirth that still survives. 

All duties to his kind 

It was his joy to fill; 
With nature gentle and refined. 

Yet dauntless soul and will, 
192 



LEE 0. HARRIS 

He met the trying need 

Of every troublous call, 
Yet high and clear and glad indeed 

He sung above it all. 

Ay, listen ! Still we hear 

The patriot song, the lay 
Of love, the woodland note so dear — 

These will not die away. 
Then say not he is dead. 

The friend we honor so, 
But lift a grateful voice instead 

And say: He lives, we know. 



193 



THE HIGHEST GOOD 

WRITTEN FOR A HIGH-SCHOOL ANNUAL 

To attain the highest good 
Of true man and womanhood, 
Simply do your honest best — 
God with joy will do the rest. 



194 



MY CONSCIENCE 

Sometimes my Conscience says, says he, 

^^Don't yon know me?" 

And I, says I, skeered through and through, 

"Of course I do. 

You air a nice chap ever* way, 

I'm here to say! 

You make me cry — you make me pray. 

And all them good things thataway — 

That is, at night. Where do you stay 

Durin' the day?" 

And then my Conscience says, onc't more, 

"You know me — shore?" 

"Oh, yes," says I, a-trimblin' faint, 

"You're jes' a saint ! 

Your ways is all so holy-right, 

I love you better ever' night 

You come around, — tel' plum daylight. 

When you air out o' sight !" 

And then my Conscience sort o' grits 
His teeth, and spits 
On his two hands and grabs, of course, 
Some old remorse, 

195 



MY CONSCIENCE 



And beats me with the big butt-end 
0' that thing — tel my clostest friend 
'Ud hardly know me. "Now/^ says he, 
^^Be keerful as you'd orto be 



196 



MY BOY 

You smile and you smoke your cigar, my boy ; 

You walk with a languid swing ; 
You tinkle and tune your guitar, my boy, 

And you lift up 3^our voice and sing; 
The midnight moon is a friend of yours, 

And a serenade your joy — 
And it's only an age like mine that cures 

A trouble like yours, my boy! 



197 



THE OBJECT LESSON" 

Barely a year ago I attended the Friday afternoon 
exercises of a country school. My mission there, as I re- 
member, was to refresh my mind with such material as 
might be gathered, for a "valedictory," which, I regret 
to say, was to be handed down to posterity under an- 
other signature than my own. 

There was present, among a host of visitors, a pale 
young man of perhaps thirty years, with a tall head and 
bulging brow and a highly intellectual pair of eyes and 
spectacles. He wore his hair without roach or "part" 
and the smile he beamed about him was "a joy forever." 
He was an educator — from the East, I think I heard it 
rumoured — anyway he was introduced to the school at 
last, and he bowed, and smiled, and beamed upon us all, 
and entertained us after the most delightfully edifying 
manner imaginable. And although I may fail to repro- 
duce the exact substance of his remarks upon that highly 
important occasion, I think I can at least present his 
theme in all its coherency of detail. Addressing more 
particularly the primary department of the school, he 
said : — 

"As the little exercise I am about to introduce is of 
198 



THE OBJECT LESSON" 

recent origin, and tlie bright, intelligent faces of the pu- 
pils before me seem rife with eager and expectant in- 
terest, it will be well for me, perhaps, to offer by way of 
preparatory preface, a few terse words of explanation. 

"The Object Lesson is designed to fill a long-felt want, 
and is destined, as I think, to revolutionize, in a great 
degree, the educational systems of our land. — In my be- 
lief, the Object Lesson will supply a want which I may 
safely say has heretofore left the most egregious and 
palpable traces of mental confusion and intellectual in- 
adequacies stamped, as it were, upon the gleaming rea- 
sons of the most learned — the highest cultured, and the 
most eminently gifted and promising of our professors 
and scientists both at home and abroad. 

"N'ow this deficiency — if it may be so termed — plainly 
has a beginning; and probing deeply with the bright, 
clean scalpel of experience we discover that — '^As the 
twig is bent the tree's inclined.' To remedy, then, a 
deeply seated error which for so long has rankled at the 
very root of educational progress throughout the land, 
many plausible, and we must admit, many helpful the- 
ories have been introduced to allay the painful errors 
resulting from the discrepancy of which we speak: but 
until now, nothing that seemed wholly to eradicate the de- 
fect has been discovered, and that, too, strange as it may 
seem, is, at last, emanating, like the mighty river, from 
the simplest source, but broadening and gathering in 
force and power as it flows along, until, at last, its grand 

199 



THE OBJECT LESSON 

and mighty current sweeps on in majesty to the vast 
illimitable ocean of — of — of — Success ! Ahem ! 

^'And, now, little boys and girls, that we have had by 
implication, a clear and comprehensive explanation of 
the Object Lesson and its mission, I trust you will give 
me your undivided attention while I endeavor — in my 
humble way — to direct your newly acquired knowledge 
through the proper channel. For instance : — 

"This little object I hold in my hand — who will desig- 
nate it by its proper name ? Come, now, let us see who 
will be the first to answer. ^A peanut,^ says the little 
boy here at my right. Very good — very good! I hold, 
then, in my hand, a peanut. And now who will tell me, 
what is the peanut? A very simple question — ^who will 
answer? 'Something good to eat,^ says the little girl. 
Yes, 'something good to eat,^ but would it not be better 
to say simply that the peanut is an edible ? I think so, 
yes. The peanut, then, is — an edible — now, all together, 
an edible! 

"To what kingdom does the peanut belong ? The ani- 
mal, vegetable, or mineral kingdom ? A very easy ques- 
tion. Come, let us have prompt answers. 'The animal 
kingdom,^ does the little boy say ? Oh, no ! The peanut 
does not belong to the animal kingdom ! Surely the lit- 
tle bo}^ must be thinking of a larger object than the pea- 
nut — the elephant, perhaps. To what kingdom, then, 
does the peanut belong? The v-v-veg — ^The vegetable 
kingdom,^ says the bright-faced little girl on the back 

200 



THE OBJECT LESSON 

seat. Ah ! that is better. We find then that the peanut 
belongs to the — ^what kingdom? The ^vegetable king- 
dom.^ Yery good, very good ! 

"And now who will tell us of what the peanut is com- 
posed. Let us have quick responses now. Time is fleet- 
ing! Of what is the peanut composed? ^The hull and 
the goody/ some one answers. Yes, *^the hull and the 
goody' in vulgar parlance, but how much better it would 
be to say simply, the shell and the kernel. Would not 
that sound better ? Yes, I thought you would agree with 
me there ! 

"And now who will tell me the color of the peanut ! 
And be careful now! for I shouldn't like to hear you 
make the very stupid blunder I once heard a little boy 
make in reply to the same question. Would you like to 
hear what color the stupid little boy said the peanut 
was? You would, eh? Well, now, how many of you 
would like to hear what color the stupid little boy said 
the peanut was? Come now, let's have an expression. 
All who would like to hear what color the stupid little 
boy said the peanut was, may hold up their right hands. 
Yery good, very good — there, that will do. 

"Well, it was during a professional visit I was once 
called upon to make to a neighboring city, where I was 
invited to address the children of a free school — Hands 
down, now, little boy — founded for the exclusive benefit 
of the little newsboys and bootblacks, who, it seems, had 
not the means to defray the expenses of the commonest 

201 



THE OBJECT LESSON 

educational accessories, and during an object lessen — 
identical with the one before us now — for it is a favorite 
one of mine — I propounded the question, what is the 
color of the peanut? Many answers were given in re- 
sponse, but none as sufficiently succinct and apropos as 
I deemed the facts demanded ; and so at last I personally 
addressed a ragged, but, as I then thought, a bright- 
eyed little fellow, when judge of my surprise, in reply to 
my question what is the color of the peanut, the little 
fellow, without the slightest gleam of intelligence light- 
ing up his face, answered, that 'if not scorched in roast- 
ing, the peanut was a blond.' Why, I was almost tempted 
to join in the general merriment his inapposite reply 
elicited. But I occupy your attention with trivial things ; 
and as I notice the time allotted to me has slipped away, 
we will drop the peanut for the present. Trusting the 
few facts gleaned from a topic so homely and unpromis- 
ing will sink deep in your minds, in time to bloom and 

blossom in the fields of future usefulness — I — I 1 

thank you.'' 



THE END 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 



